


Precious Mettle

by Gilded_Pleasure



Series: Osteogenesis [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Big Horny Love Sex, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Illness, Long-Term Relationship(s), Nonbinary Character, Normal Problems, Other, Slice of Life, Solvable Conflicts, Tender Coffeeshop Hand Touches, That Interspecies Family Lifestyle, nonbinary reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilded_Pleasure/pseuds/Gilded_Pleasure
Summary: Sans and Reader have been in a relationship for a few years now, not that they’re counting.The center holds.
Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader, Sans (Undertale)/You
Series: Osteogenesis [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1455553
Comments: 73
Kudos: 105





	1. a little house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans and Reader have some sex, learn some things, then have an under-the-blankets conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And down where I darn with the milk-eyed mender  
> You and I, and a love so tender  
> stretched on a hoop where I stitch this adage:  
> "Bless our house and its heart so savage."
> 
> —Sadie – Joanna Newsom  
> https://youtu.be/tFroihAcXHE

Sans loves your face when he’s doing stuff inside you. Rapt and a little sweaty, focused like you’re listening whether your eyes are open, or shut like now. As if there’s music happening inside you, music that Sans is playing.

You squeeze him gently with your legs to guide him, and now it’s your _favorite_ song. Sans hears another breathy sound of surprised enjoyment emerge from his own skull, because he’s using his genitalia to make you feel good this time. And you’re doing the same for him, letting him rub the sensitive magic between his bones back and forth inside your snug opening, your beautiful wet-velvet texture drawing waves of pleasure from his whole body that gather into a brightening point at the crux of his pubis.

There’s about an inch left out when he pushes in; this one’s kinda long, but you’ll be able to take it once you’re worked up enough. Definitely getting there, softening up inside to make room for him. So wet he can hardly believe it, slicking him up all the way to his ischium. He makes another soft noise; your body does that because you like him. You also like what he’s doing, and he can feel it inside you.

Your genitalia flutters around his in a restless grip like fingers shaking with excitement, like holding hands and jumping off something tall together. Sans leans up on his arms so he can look down at where that’s happening, see his magic moving rapidly between your folds. The secret shadow that usually hums quietly between his bones is extended and firm, pushed into your dusky-flushed opening. You let out a gritty moan at the shift, and he glances briefly at your face to make sure it’s a good noise. It is, so he smiles and tips his head back down to watch some more. Stars, there’s something so satisfying about how it looks, something you’d think of as _visceral_ (since you have things like viscera).

Your delicate inner folds spread on his glistening length so prettily each time he pulls back, like they’re trying to hold him, too. Gentle little tugs like they don’t want to let go just yet, can’t wait for him to push back in. He curses softly, watching himself do just that over and over. Feels better each time, a pleasure that just keeps on building. Your hands are gripping the bedding now, having fallen away when he leaned up. Your belly tightens as you curl up a bit, holding your breath as he speeds up briefly… then you shudder and moan, opening your legs wider as he slows. Sans breathes raggedly and does it just like that for a while, enjoying the throaty noises you make as he pushes deeper, gently questioning.

He’d usually have a lot more to say, but Sans is feeling quiet tonight for no particular reason. He’s all tangled up in watching you, drunk on _feeling_ you, letting the rocking motions soothe him into a drowsy state of feverish arousal. It’s a nice mood. He feels so close to you without talking, even without sharing souls. Just _this_ , you closing your eyes to let him watch you without getting self-conscious about it, not thinking about anything but how he feels inside you.

Makes him think about how this feels with your body, the times you’ve done it soul-merged. It’s satisfying for you to have him like this. Blunt and full like pushing, tingly-wet with a humming resonance. Reminds him of eating, of touching himself, of when you touch inside his ribcage or rub his sacrum with your palm. Like hunger; a need. And you’d gloried in how this feels for him. Sans moans again, remembering your wonder at how his genitalia sends a hot echo between his bones no matter how it’s shaped, the same delicious pressure in his joints he’s feeling now.

The pleasure in him sharpens mercilessly, honed like a blade back and forth between thought and memory, between movement and intentions.

“’m close,” he gasps quickly. You can usually tell with him, but he always says it anyways. Partly because it feels so sexy to say it. And the other reason’s...already sort of happening, he realizes. Sometimes when Sans is close to coming he can get carried away, and he’s got a feeling it’s gonna be one of those times.

“’m real excited, k?” he manages; feels like his body’s overriding everything with its urgency. Still freaks him out a little, but you make him feel safe. So wanted.

“ _Yeah_ ,” you say fervently, pushing up into him for more. “Like that, _hard_ …oh, fuck….”

You groan with anticipation as he lies down on your body, and your hands slide along the back of his ribcage to hold him. All he wants to see when he comes is your face, sweaty and blissful. Together in this even with just bodies, his face close to inhale every lovely sound you make. Each tiny crease in your lips carves his soul with its microcrystalline beauty, makes him shudder as you still its tremble between your teeth. Your voice is sudden and sultry in his memory: _I_ _love_ _the way_ _you fuck me when you’re coming._

Sans can’t keep back his shaky cry, and he doesn’t bother trying. You’re so _wet_ for him, ready inside to give him what he needs to come for you. He _wants_ to, and he’s gonna give it to you just how you like it. Sans reaches down to hold your hip, gives it a careful, loving squeeze and drives in to the hilt. He’s so sensitive here he feels the tension as he stretches you lengthwise, pressed blunt into the deep-surprised shuddering against the tip. It’s _beautiful_ ; a delicious shiver for you both as long as you’re ready for him. The tight, breathy whimper you make when he does it again, his hips hitching desperately… ohhh. Oh, _fuck_.

Your deep flutter condenses the last of the diffuse pleasure right down into the bright point at his pelvis; the sound you made slides heavily all the way down his spine to ignite the base of it like a quick-fused bomb. His voice breaks when he cries out, and the soft-wet slap of magic and bone against your meltingly pliant body adds itself to the roar of sensation your bodies create together. That searing point of pleasure blossoms out wider as he plunges himself into it, incinerating everything that’s ever existed except this moment. It’s almost bearable as long as he keeps moving, keeps fucking into you hard and fast as his voice jitters apart all over again.

But the second the skin around your eyes quivers in pain instead of pleasure, he’s already out of you and into the tight circle of his fingers before you say “Ow!” Your eyes fly open; you look at each other in equally baffled shock.

Something’s wrong. This doesn’t usually hurt you, he doesn’t _want_ it to hurt you...he’s… Sans figures it’s better to wait until he stops coming before actually trying to _talk_ , but he looks down at the spot you’re holding low on your abdomen.

It’s been a long time since he’s looked at the inside of your body, ever since you confessed it weirds you out a little, but he does it now. Huh. He rubs the last of his climax out in careless distraction with his hard fingers as he looks (it feels really bad if he doesn’t touch it while that’s happening), but his attention’s on what he sees. Something's there that isn’t supposed to be, and that’s what hurt you. He feels guilty for being relieved, but that sort of thing isn’t anyone’s fault.

“Sans…!” He pulls his heavy, shaky-bowed skull back up to take in your desperate expression, lets himself go quickly to swap out his fingers for yours on your clit. It’s only been a few seconds, and you’re still in a haze of urgency. “Fuck!” You sob and start, then wriggle as you tense right back up. You’re still half-drunk on pleasure, and you were close, too. He sees you arching up towards him, your opening clenching on nothing as you let out a nasal, plaintive moan. “I’m, I want--”

Okay. He can have whatever weird feelings he needs to have about this later, because he’s not about to leave you unsatisfied on top of hurting you, even if it was just for a second.

“easy,” he slurs breathlessly, “lemme jus’…” He shifts forward until he can nudge his genitalia back inside you, and he can tell it doesn’t hurt now. It was that spot that hurt you, and that’s deep inside. He can avoid it easily now that he knows where it is. Sans hisses at the ticklish sensitivity of your trembling softness after stroking with hard bones, but once he’s in about halfway it eases, turns back into pleasure. Not too deep, just enough so he can feel you tighten down. A groan pushes out hard through his teeth; you tighten again when you hear it. He moves steadily instead of jerky thrusting, rubbing you insistently with his fingers right above.

“easy,” he says again when you buck under him, and he lies back down to press you flat to the bed. “lemme do it…” Your arms pull him close, but he can see anxiety creeping in on the edges, conflicted with the urgency of your body. _Now_ you remember the pain. “sh-shh...it won’t hurt,” he manages. He still hasn’t caught his breath, and your conflict grows keen. “i promise,” jerks out of him before he even thinks about it. Your eyes quiver, and you huff in surprise. They spill over when you close them and hold him tight, but Sans doesn’t stop. He doesn’t take it back, and he feels your whole body relax right into him, melting against him. _Trust_.

“’m gonna make it good,” Sans says, touching his face to yours. “jus’ like you always do for me.”

Sans presses his teeth against you, pushes how he feels right into your skin. For you it just feels warm, you can’t understand what his body says, but it feels so nice to say it this way. He loves, you, loves you _so much_. It’s not your fault it hurt for a second, and it’s not his either.

Sans doesn’t _need_ sex, doesn’t need to come even when it feels like it. What he needs is _this_ , and even his own thoughts can’t explain it. It quakes through every last bit of his magic: _he needs you_ , so much it spills right out of him. You moan together as his magic sheds hard across his bones, floods between his legs. Your fingers nudge his aside, and he gets up on his elbows to hold your shoulder, cup the nape of your neck.

He’s already being tugged right back into it with you, and being careful doesn’t stop the same pleasure from igniting in him again. But not...igniting, this time. It’s flooding him instead, every last bit of him drenched in it. Feels like wet sand getting pulled from beneath his feet until he staggers, a wave building inevitably offshore. You moan and clench; he doesn’t know if he says anything. All he knows is this, and you, and the slow shudder of your body like the ground thundering under an inevitable approach. He’s an ocean and this is a storm, the roil of your midnight clouds above as rain sheets down into him, _becoming_. Your free arm tugs him close and you curl up tight; he manages to gasp out a few words just before you tighten down and come hard.

Then he’s coming again, and it’s not fire this time. It’s a breaker on the shore, seething out wider than he thought possible. Everything he is crashing and foaming into the ground that can take it, that absorbs its fury with the strength of an entire earth behind it. Sans shakes himself apart safe in your embrace, his voice flung out of him by the swirling turbulence and into the heated skin of your neck: a loud, deep cry that vibrates through his teeth.

Neither of you want to let this go yet, so you don’t. You draw it out together until it becomes something else, lingering movements that make you both forget anything but pleasure, slickness and heat, shivering aftershocks. He keeps going until all the magic he spent sinks away into your body, time spent nuzzling and breathing each other in, broken whispers and kept promises passing between his skull and your lungs.

He doesn’t withdraw so much as his softening magic curls and slips out, starts to go back to where it usually resides. He slicks it over your drenched folds like a sloppy tongue, then it coils and condenses until it’s a tense bud in his pubic symphysis once more. You both squeak and giggle when he rubs that on you, too. You have sex that way often when his genitalia doesn’t come out at all. He considers going another round with his body like this, but when he glances at your sated face he can tell you’re done for now.

Sans rolls off to the side heavily, then hums with pleasure as your gather him up for hot kisses and praise. He _loves_ this part, loves being fussed over and petted. But he cuts it short anyways so he can confess how he looked inside your body without asking first, and _why_ he did. What he found.

“What do you mean, there’s something _in_ there?” you say with a strange half-smile, wrist rubbing your forehead idly. “I don’t remember eating any toy cars recently.”

“nah,” Sans says, glad you’re not upset with him. “ _you_ made it. or, your cell things made it?” He touches the spot on your skin that you’d held, right above where the thing is. Your whole body is made of little miniature copies of you; they even have skin outside and organs inside, make chemicals and stuff just like you. They’re ridiculously cute, but these ones are misbehaving. He points at it again, explaining what he saw.

“one of em told a lie, and some more of em decided it was true. it said they’re supposed to grow no matter _what_ , but that’s not true. they’re supposed to do something _else_ , not only…grow. all those ones growing too much made a little house in there, and that’s what hurt for a second. it’s okay, though. we just gotta take their house away.”

He can tell it’s not supposed to be there, because it has a different goal that the rest of what you’re made of. But when he looks back up, you’re not smiling anymore. In fact….that’s not a good look _at all._ The blood moves away from your skin until your face is a strained yellowish color.

“Are you saying it’s cancer?” you gasp tightly. “ _I have cancer_??”

“i don’t know,” Sans admits helplessly. “i don’t know what cancer looks like, but it’s okay.”

You face slides into pure horror; new sweat adds itself as you gasp and shake. You cover your mouth and make a bad whimpering noise. You’re so scared it echoes through the lacy shape of you in his soul, a cold pang that makes him grunt strangely.

“tori can fix it,” Sans says quickly, patting you all over with his fingerbones like he’s trying to put out a sudden fire. “paps, too! it’s _okay_ ,” he says again. “it won’t hurt, they can get rid of it…” He trails off when your tear-streaked face shoots up.

“What?”

“they can fix it,” he repeats, “jus’ take it right out. figured tori or paps, cause it’s private.”

“Surgery?” you croak thickly.

“no,” Sans says carefully, trying to figure out how to calm you. “fire magic, if tori does it. she just...” He makes a pinching motion with his fingers. “it’s easy for them, only takes a second. i can’t do it, though.” You’re holding his wrists now like you’re drowning. “it doesn’t hurt, just feels warm, like...” he doesn’t want to say like a kiss, because he doesn’t want you to think of how scared you are right now when he kisses you. “...like when paps does your hands n stuff, or...more like vulkin,” he finishes, relieved because that’s much closer to the truth.

“Healing?” You’re still crying, but you’re listening.

“yeah,” he says even though he’s not sure it means the same thing. This is removing something, not changing it. But he’s pretty sure for you, that’s correct. Something else occurs to him.

“you c’n ask frisk about it. tori found something like that on their skin one time. she jus’ took it off, like pickin’ off a piece a fuzz on their shirt. i didn’t even get a good look at it, an’ it was gone.”

If he’d known _this_ was the cancer thing you’ve always been so terrified of, he’d have said all that a lot differently. Been more careful about explaining what he saw, but he didn’t know. And he _still_ doesn’t know if that’s what the little cell house inside you is called, but definitely he knows nearly any monster except him could fix it for you, easy as pie.

“But...” Your trail off; Sans just pets you and waits. “Mine’s inside.”  
“mmhmm. they can’t _see_ inside like i do, but they...know anyways.”

You curl back up, and Sans wraps his arms around you protectively. He desperately wants to make you feel safe again. This hurts a lot more than the little pinch of pain earlier.

“’m sorry,” Sans whispers into your hair. “sorry it’s scary, but it’ll all be gone like nothing ever was there. s’okay ta be scared, though.” The cold feeling eases, but it doesn’t go away completely.

He keeps holding you while you cry some more, answers your questions as best he can. Makes you drink some water. Yes, he’s absolutely sure a monster can fix this. No, he never got a good look at anything he was _certain_ was the thing humans call cancer. Yes, he’s messaging Toriel to make sure she can fix cancer and she can. He gets you to sit up and share a bag of candies you made for him. The spicy chocolate sour thingies. He loves them, and he loves you too. You’re not up for playing the game about the shapes, but that’s okay. It’s still calming you down.

“So monsters can just...heal anything wrong with humans? That easy?”

“dunno for sure, cause i can’t do it,” Sans says sincerely.

“What about Frisk?”

“frisk’s not sick,” Sans says slowly.

“Their scar?”

Sans shakes his head, feeling confused. “that’s all over and done with. has been for a long time. you’d have to ask toriel about it to know more, cause i sure don’t. and uh. the whole aging thing happens no matter what. but if you’re _sick_...yeah, tori always said so.”

For some reason…

this information makes you remarkably _angry_.

Sans sits there, candy forgotten in his fingers, while you work yourself up into a veritable frenzy of bizarre outrage. He’s too surprised at first, but then you start talking like it’s monsters’ fault humans get sick sometimes. Words like ‘obligation’ and ‘ethical’ start happening. Like monsters collectively all did something bad to humans.

“Why am _I_ special?” Your angry, thoughtless gesture slashes close enough to make his eyes flicker faintly. “Why aren’t you _all_ out there healing people _right now_??”

He's not okay with you acting like this, even if angry feels better than scared.

“readz,” Sans says quietly, adamantly. You cut yourself off, close your mouth with a wet click.

The tone of his voice isn’t especially anything, but you can probably feel the hot little flush of sincere anger in his soul your words and actions caused. Kinda surprises him, too.

He would be astounded by your ability to remain staunchly unaware of painfully obvious things if it wasn’t for a life lived alongside Papyrus. He might be frustrated if it weren’t for the bottomless well of patience that springs forth from his essential self naturally. And he might be astounded by the perfection of your compatibility with each other if it wasn’t so much careful, beautiful work.

“we _do_ ,” he continues after you have a second to untangle your own thoughts and really listen to what he’s saying. It’s important, so he tries to make you understand the way _you_ would do it. Asks you questions you know the answers to, strung on a line that leads to the truth.

“you set folks up to study at the college. what do the monsters come see you for, most of the time?”

Your lips part, and your eyes widen.

“Home health certification.”

“how many?” He tries to hold your gaze, but your eyes dart away like slippery minnows. “jus’ an estimate, since _you_ started.”

“H...hundreds,” you manage, smashing and rolling the soft candy between your fingers, “...at least.”

Sans nods. “and where do they go?”

You look down at the squished candy some more. Massage it until it’s just a soft wad of blended chocolate goo and sweetness. “I don’t actually know.”

“they’re _out_ there, doing what they do,” Sans informs you gently. “the humans gotta ask first, though...or the monster c’n ask, if someone’s really sick. can’t jus’ do that sorta thing without permission. and a lotta humans think it’s _bad_ , or that it’ll make em...sicker in a different way?” Sans doesn’t really understand what “devil” is, and doesn’t actually care all that much. “understandable, cause that’s what human healing does sometimes, yeah?”

You look at him. “They’re healing people? Right now?”

“yeah.”

Your face crumples.

“I feel so fucking stupid right now,” you whisper, wiping tears away. Still angry. “Toriel healed my leg, when I...fell down. That time. I don’t know why I didn’t...realize that.” Sans doesn’t say anything. He has no idea what you know and don’t know. Then something occurs to him.

“i don’t think you’re stupid,” he reminds you carefully. “broken bones and a little house are different.”

Your lip quivers, then firms.

“I guess I’m used to the idea that they’d...have to go through human systems for things like that,” you say quietly. “Get assigned to places, or...people. But monsters aren’t like that, are they.” Sans can tell it’s a rhetorical question, so he just waits and listens while you talk your way through it. “Monsters…they’re just going up to a person and asking them if they want them to just take out their tumors or get rid of that cough, or…but maybe not, if people are hurt too bad to ask. or...babies, or whatever.”

“i guess,” Sans agrees easily. “not like i’m doing all that. since i can’t.” He grins at you, doesn't bother explaining that in places where babies are born, a monster will be there to heal them. That they ask children, not parents. You still have some ideas about these things that Sans doesn’t understand. Just like he doesn’t understand why human children let their parents decide those things for them. Probably none of his business.

“Why isn’t this a widely known thing? I mean, wouldn’t everyone be talking about it? It’s literally miracle healing.”

Your use of the word ‘miracle’ calls up a recollection that’s probably the answer to your question.

“frisk says humans think it’s a trick,” Sans explains. “like...if someone gets better, it’s because they weren’t really sick in the first place. or that they got better because they _believed_ they would. no idea why that makes it not count...i figure all that matters is they got better. they say the sick person _thinking_ it works made it real, which...” Sans frowns. “come ta think of it, that one makes more sense now i know more bout humans, biologically speaking.”

“Hands-on experience, huh?” Your waggling eyebrows make him grin, then your face changes. You’re ashamed. “I don’t like it when people can see how scared I am. But you always see it.”

“can’t really help it,” Sans points out reasonably.

You sigh, wiggle uncomfortably. You think about saying something, then decide to say something else.

“Do you wish you could heal?”

Sans shrugs. He has literally never thought about it. “i don’t think so?” Huh. Surprising himself again. “maybe if i could, i’d like it, though. i’m...” Sans trails off, feels his magic seething in his face. Feeling like he’s good at something tends to make him like it, but...

“What?”

Sans shrugs.

“You’d probably complain about it so much all your patients would leave with a complex,” you giggle. “Considering how much you complain about checks.”

Sans tries squishing up the candy in his fingers. It’s different because his hands are different, but it turns out it’s still kinda fun.

“don’ tell alphie,” he whispers, staring at what his fingers are doing. He still sees you nod.

“i like it,” he confesses softly.

Funny how it is, saying something he’s never told a single soul. Easier than he thought. With you, that sort of thing just always...slips right out.

He’s shared the feeling with Grillby before, without ever actually showing him _what_ makes him feel that way. And it’s no big thing, nothing shameful or upsetting or even...all that interesting. Really boring, actually.

(Maybe that’s exactly why. Sans isn’t cool, or even all that mysterious. The things he likes are humble and small. Things that work the way they’re supposed to. Things that take patience and attention. Things that don’t have to do anything but exist.)

But sharing’s not the same as just _saying_ it. Not even in the ballpark.

“i like looking at the numbers an’ making sure they’re right,” he breathes, staring down at the mangled candy in his fingers. It’s repetitive and tedious work. Makes him wonder if he’s a tedious and repetitive person for liking it, maybe. “when it...works like it’s supposed to, makes me feel….y’know. i did that.” It’s a cracked whisper, and magic mists lightly across his face. “didn’t really do anything, though. jus’ sat in a chair.”

“You’re embarrassed to like your job?” You voice is soft, not mean or dismissive. He doesn’t know why he expects it to be.

“...heh.” It’s a barely-voiced exhale. “i dunno.”

“It’s okay to be proud of it,” you insist. He’s sweating now. Somehow, it isn’t a bad thing. “I am. Proud of you.”

“it’s a weird feeling,” Sans admits to the squished candy. “like...someone’s gonna say what i like’s stupid, or…take it away? ruin it so i can’t like it any more?”

Part of Sans realizes he’s not looking at you because he doesn’t want to know if you’re making that face. The one when you’re thinking about stuff he can’t remember. Which is when it occurs to him that this feeling might be _because_ of stuff he can’t remember. Maybe someone said something mean, did something that made Sans believe that what he likes is bad. You’re not the only one who’s scared of things.

But he doesn’t want that to be a wall between you.

When he turns to face you, you’ve got a normal smile on your face.

“You know...one time Papyrus told me a story about Frisk getting invaded by aliens,” you offer. “They had to take medicine to get better… he seemed really offended by it. If he could have fixed that, why didn’t he?”

Sans takes the opportunity to change the subject, and the love he feels for you twinges sweetly in his soul. You’re in there too, blue and billowing. Refreshing after stagnant times filled with stagnant secrets. Makes it easy to tell the truth, but Sans still lets out a long, heavy sigh. He laboriously parts his teeth and slips his massaged-into-goo and now-flattened candy into his mouth, and he has to admit it pretty much rules. You’re really on to something here.

“frisk n papyrus got in a fight about it, long time ago,” he says, resting his skull back against the headboard and savoring the slow dissolve of flavors in his mouth. He shuts his sockets for a second. Tastes like resolved conflict, with a dash of increasing intimacy. Nice. “you know paps…sometimes he gets a lil funny?” He rolls his skull to look at you again.

You nod, even as your eyebrows lift in disbelief.

Sans shrugs uncomfortably. “called em th’other name by accident.” You know what name he means. “an’ frisk doesn’t like that. wouldn’t let him take care of it after that, wouldn’t even let tori do it. made a big case outta going to see a human doctor. it hurt his feelings.”

“I have a hard time imagining Frisk and Papyrus having a real argument,” you say slowly.

Sans uses his hands to say “Frisk’s soul likes to argue,” lazy style, then sees you don’t understand it without help. Huh. It’s close to the gesture that means he’s offering or referring to his own soul, so he speaks aloud when he repeats it.

“twice as purple, twice the arguing,” he tries. You grin, huff out an amused little breath. Thinking of Shonda, most likely. Teenager stuff. Sans grins too, because it feels good to be understood. He lets you lick his messy fingers, then looks into your eyes for a long moment.

“c’n i show you something?”

You can tell it’s not something he usually shows people, and you’re definitely on the right track. More like nobody ever, under any circumstances.

“Wanna go under the blankets, Hon?”

Sans giggles when he nods, but not because you sound a little awkward saying it. That just makes it cuter. “Hon,” like honey, because he’s so sweet. He wonders if Grillby’s explained to you yet that it’s a pretty bawdy nickname to give him in particular, because of the way he tastes and smells to monsters. Like when he calls Grillby “hot stuff.” He did give in and tell you that ‘sweetie’’s a nickname you should save for the bedroom, although sometimes you forget and he kinda likes it, even if he’s also a little embarrassed.

He feels that way a little now, too, even though you’re the only one here to see.

Sans lets you arrange him and yourself under the blankets comfortably, then turns his hand so the light in the room’s inside here too. You make a surprised little noise, but when he glances, you just shake your head. Not important, then.

“sometimes i find things,” he says softly into the space between your bodies, curled in towards each other like commas. “i like to hold on to em, i guess.”

And Sans pulls out his pinecone. Just...pulls it right out.

There it is, here in his hand between you.

“Whoa,” you say in awe, like it’s the most astounding thing you’ve ever seen in your life. You don’t try to touch it or anything. “I didn’t know you kept stuff there, too.”

Sans is flustered, feels like he has to explain it. “found it a long time ago, in snowdin. well. right around there, down by my station.” He runs his fingertip along the counterclockwise spirals, thirteen all round. “it’s...like me,” he tries. “doesn’t make sense when ya count it, but all together....” He counts from the top silently, then from the bottom. Different from each direction, but both add up to the same thing.

Impossible.

“It’s really cool,” you whisper. When he looks over expecting derision (why? He doesn’t know), he sees your eyes wandering in fascination to follow his finger. Not even looking at him, like you’re too impressed by his pinecone. Magic seethes in his face again; this _is_ just like when you forget and call him ‘sweetie’ in front of people. Too much good at once, feels like he’s too...special? His breathing’s funny until he hears it, steadies it out. The way he feels doesn’t make sense, so he listens to what you’re saying instead.

“They’re those Fibonacci thingies, right? The spirals?”

“dunno. but it adds up right until it doesn’t.”

“Counting too much makes my brain tired,” you admit with shy quirk of your lips.

“me too,” Sans chuffs softly. “even though i like it. i like ta count it when ‘m trying to sleep.”

“Is that why you keep it in there?”

“...mm. i jus’ like it. and it won’t get old in there, either.” Sans moves his legs around aimlessly between the blanket and sheet, delighted and uncomfortable. It’s actually a part of him, now. Made of him, preserved in the perfect shape of a mathematically impossible pinecone. He puts it back, keeps it safe. He calms back down after you hold each other for a bit. You look at him now, sad and loving.

“I’m sorry I said those things about monsters. I was wrong.”

Sans just shakes his head. Everyone’s allowed to be wrong about things. That’s not something to apologize for, and besides, you know the truth now.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you like that.”

Sans smiles, lifts his chin to demand a kiss. “okay.” He shuts his sockets and shivers pleasantly when he receives it.

You talk about normal things for a while. The candies were nice, but you’re both starting to get hungry for real, and he’d already said he wanted to go to Grillby’s later with you.

But it feels like there’s one more thing.

Sans puts his hand on your hip, strokes gently with his thumb. He doesn’t know how to explain it, but he’s going to try.

“bodies jus’ do things,” he says quietly. Common ground. Something you both understand. “you make it...so mine doesn’t hurt me. you take care a me when i’m having a bad nap, and when i don’t feel right, you make me feel good anyhow. so….i’m not gonna let yours hurt you.”

He huffs, frowning and thinking hard. He pets your body to calm himself. It works, and he knows what he wants to say.

“i wanna look in there sometimes.”

He says what he wants, because it’s more honest than just asking if he can. You’re not the kind of person who feels pressured just because he wants something, after all. So Sans takes responsibility for wanting to look, and for having done it already. You both still know he won’t without your permission, not unless something’s wrong like just happened. But Sans wants more than that. He wants to check on you sometimes, even if nothing happened. You take a while thinking about what he said. He’s glad.

“Okay,” you whisper eventually. “You can look in there. Just tell me when you do, okay?”

There’s no space between your bodies anymore. All tangled up again, sharing your soft heat and his tepid, grubby bones.

“okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever think about things you never thought about? Like...  
> ….what IS a pine cone?
> 
> Well. Pine cones keep a pine tree’s seeds safe.  
> Pine cones close their scales to protect the seeds from cold temperatures, wind, and even animals that might try to eat them. They can open up and release their seeds when it gets warm out, and it’s safer for them to germinate.  
> Pine cones can stay on tree for more than 10 years before dropping to the ground.  
> All conifers produce two kinds of cones. The pinecones we’re used to are only the seed-bearing cones.  
> The other cones are much smaller and not showy. You may have never noticed them. The small cones release pollen, which drifts into the air and eventually finds and fertilizes the seed cones. It doesn’t matter if they are its own or other trees’ cones.
> 
> No, really. What IS a pine cone, mathematically speaking?  
> http://faculty.smcm.edu/sgoldstine/pinecones.html  
> or  
>  _Dancing Elves and a Flower's View of Euclid's Algorithm_ by Susan Goldstine  
> https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007%2FBF02984699


	2. the art of napping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kids need care and attention, whether they’re ten, fifteen, twenty-three or zero. Although the form it takes can vary wildly, Sans and Reader are on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joanna Newsom – The Sprout and the Bean  
> https://youtu.be/Xbkp6wd5s0k

“Is Sans gonna draw with us?”

You don’t look up from the articles a few of your colleagues asked to you to look over for them. They’re not bad, but they’re not exactly the most exciting thing that ever happened to you, either.

“Sans is tired, Nattie,” you drone absently.

“Why?”

Your sister Angie and her child, Nattie, are having one of their art dates at the dining room table in the house you all share. You’re doing not-exactly-work-but-not-exactly- _not_ -work things, and Sans has his arms folded on the table with his sleepy skull buried in them like a perfect little egg in a bone-and-cloth nest. His hood’s partly up, and he’s snoring faintly.

And then he’s not. Sans doesn’t sit up so much as slide down the chair in a curve til his shoulders are level with the table, opening and closing his sockets slowly. The white points inside aren’t there yet, but he’s working on it. One of the drawstrings for his hood is actually dangling into his nasal cavity.

“Sans?” Nattie’s staring at him cautiously.

“…nnh,” Sans agrees amiably enough, then exhales forcefully to puff the drawstring out. It takes another try or two, but he gets there. You know enough to leave it, since one time you’d pulled it out for him. He had sneezed spectacularly and repeatedly. Because it tickled.

Sans is not awake, which isn’t unusual. It’s becoming apparent that Sans would, however, _like_ to be awake.

He might want to draw as Nattie suggested, or he might just want to make a terrible joke about drawing, or being asked to draw. Sans is a very patient skeleton, and this is a situation that will sort itself out with no (visible) effort on his part; nor will a time delay influence him telling the same joke no matter when he gets around to it. Sans is naturally immune to l’esprit d’escalier.

Nevertheless, you take a mug of sea tea out of his phone for him and set it on the table, and he socket-blinks at that for another few minutes instead. It helps to have a clear goal. Even if he can’t see it properly yet, he can smell it. Angie’s pretty absorbed in scowling at the scraps of monster softpaper she’s drawing on, scrubbing the eraser across and cursing softly under her breath.

“He might be a little while, Nats.” You inform them kindly.

“Why?” Nattie leans in closer to Sans, invading his personal bubble. He doesn’t react.

“Give him some space, okay?” Nattie straightens up reluctantly, and you glance over at Sans’s eyes. Broad and transparent, but there now. A glance at his hands, still lying on the tabletop, shows them mumbling vaguely inside their baglike mittens.

“You want help with that, baby?”

A beatific smile softens the corners of his mouth, and he makes a pleased hum as his sockets stretch out long. You casually take the mug, set it against his smile, and lift his chin until the tea pours evenly through the spaces between his teeth.

“mmm...” he mumbles when the mug’s about half drained. “….ass.” You start giggling at the reference to how you always say this stuff smells to you, and Angie automatically barks a correction at him since she doesn’t like people cursing around Nattie. Nattie of course hadn’t noticed any cursing until their mom made a fuss. You and Sans giggle some more while Nattie smirks and makes round-eyes at you. Since Sans is forming words now, you gently release his chin and set the mug back down on the table. After a minute, he finishes the rest himself.

Turns out he did want to draw, and also to explain that he is made of bones, and therefore is always _bone_ -tired. Since Nattie had asked “why” and all. Much lamentation and gnashing of teeth results.

Sans removes his mittens, then slap-drags a piece of paper and some colored pencils over to the space he’d been napping on before. Nattie keeps trying to steal glimpses, but Sans blocks their view with his arm and his big ol noggin. He’s lefty, so this curled up, almost tortured-looking position is his usual one for writing and (apparently) drawing. Nattie pretends to draw and narrows their eyes over at Sans until he finally leans back for the reveal.

“’s a hamburger,” Sans grunts proudly.

Nattie looks at the drawing.

A big, round spiral tops a long green oval. There are dots trailing off the oval on one end, and two lines sticking up on the other.

Nattie’s face crumples like they smell something weird. “That’s a _snail_.” They look back at Sans, mortally offended.

“...nah.” Sans smiles with sleepy satisfaction, sockets long and pleased like his green oval. “’s a hamburger.”

“Sans!!!” Nattie actually bounces with frustration. It’s kind of impressive. Also reminds you that holy crap, they’re ten now. They were six the first time they met Sans...so they’ve known him for almost half their _life_ , now. Yeesh.

“There’s the shell right there,” they object, pointing.

“bun,” Sans nods like he’s agreeing.

“Would you eat a hamburger that looked like that?” Then Nattie huffs and wrinkles their nose, because Sans. “Well, _you_ \--”

“course not,” Sans interjects before Nattie gets any further in that vein. The points in his sockets roam the table for a second, then light on a red pencil. He takes it, then starts scribbling with it all over his drawing. He just keeps going and going, and you have to bite your lips to keep from laughing.

“What’s _that_??” Nattie cries, even though Sans is still drawing. It’s hard to see anything under the big red scribble.

“ketchup,” Sans rumbles happily. “now i can eat my hamburger.”

“It’s _not_ a hamburger!” Nattie’s getting well and truly lathered, and your brow creases. This isn’t like them.

“dunno...far’s likenesses go, i think i really _snailed_ it-” His eyes flicker as Nattie literally stamps their foot.

“Nobody likes your _jokes_ , Sans!!”

Sans’s teeth part crookedly, and there’s a brief flash of genuine hurt on his face. It pushes an outraged “Nattie!!” out of you and Angie, but their hands are already clapped over their mouth in apparent horror. Sans’s hurt is already covered up by his neutral grin, but you see concern slipping in at the edges. Or maybe you just feel it.

“kid...” But Nattie’s already crying, falling on Sans, and garbling an apology (?) into his hoodie-softened shoulder.

Thing is, Sans loves it when people complain about his jokes; when they say they’re bad, or generally insult his ability to comedy. There’s nothing he enjoys more than people willing to play along and have their crank harmlessly wound. But that isn’t even in the same ballpark as saying that no one _likes_ them. That’s pretty much the same as saying no one likes _Sans_ , which isn’t true, and is also just...mean.

Sans pats Nattie awkwardly, and you stare at each other with that concern hovering between you. Angie, too. Nattie isn’t a mean person.

“hey, kiddo. you wanna take a walk? think i...” He glances at Angie. “...need more ‘dogs for the stand.”

“Are we actually going to walk?” Nattie wibbles, face still buried.

“probably not,” Sans admits. Angie nods, and you both close your eyes. When you open them again, Sans and Nattie are gone, and you and Angie simultaneously get up and decide to make some coffee. Once it’s ready, you both go to the room with the tv in it and turn it on, instead of talking about Nattie being mean to Sans or even gossiping about your respective workplaces like Angie likes to do sometimes. Instead she calls up her viewer and works on some kind of scheduling thing for the school, and you try and go over the papers some more but they’re getting increasingly boring.

Luckily Shonda comes home and decides to grace you, Angie, and the couch with her presence. She doesn’t sit on it like a person or anything, more just bends her narrow body over the back of it like a teeter totter while fidgeting with the monster phone Sans got for her last birthday and hasn’t left her grasp since. She gives you a very complicated report on teen drama amongst her friends. She has a generous amount of them, despite the fact she’s still kind of a tattletale. Then again, maybe you and Angie grew up a little rougher than her kids have, and it’s less of a big deal. Her friends don’t seem to mind.

“Hey Shonda,” you say, and she should know that tone in your voice by now. She doesn’t.

“Yeah, ti-ti?”

“Find any good pasta lately?”

Shonda’s nose and ears turn hot pink, just like her mom.

“You're always saying crazy stuff, ti-ti. Anyways, I'm hungry.”

You and Angie snicker, and Shonda goes off to the kitchen in less of an obvious huff than it would have been two years ago. She gathers up enough snacks to supply at least two armies, then takes the hoard and her beloved phone complete with its projected-game sim programmer designed by MK themself off to her room to do whatever teenagers do in their rooms after school.

You and Angie turn the volume of the TV up and snicker some more about teens finding money-stuffed pasta Papyrus hides in the woods, aka the FORBIDDEN FOOD. Apparently the Kids These Days have decided the lingering technical illegality of eating money combined with its former association with child-having means it’s an _aphrodisiac._ This has lead to the newest teen rage becoming going out in the woods to find plates of G-stuffed ravioli hidden in the trees and puzzles, and occasionally buried in the ground.

Eventually the shadows grow long, and Angie starts fidgeting and asking you pointed questions about Sans’s hunting and gathering habits. You message Sans, then hear his phone go off on the table. Where you left it after taking out Sans’s tea earlier. Oops.

“I left Sans’s phone on the table,” you admit, “but everything Sans does takes way longer than anyone else doing it.”

Angie purses her lips and does a sigh. Yep. It’s the Toriel face.

“Wanna watch a show with me? A real one, not this crap.” Your background-noise entertainment feed had eventually become _It’s Mettaton!_ , and it sure is.

The face increases, but she nods. You go out of the real-time feeds and call up one of your baking contest shows. This one’s about who can make the best magic-and-otherwise combo cake. Mettaton mostly just chainsaws cakes apart these days, so it’s a nice change of pace. Angie argues about using magic decorations and whether or not it’s fair to use the technicality of everything magic being edible to use literally anything to decorate your cake.

It’s full dark out by the time Sans walks around the corner from the kitchen. There is no evidence whatsoever of Nattie. Instead, he’s holding _Sariel_ on his hip. He glances at the tv approvingly (he likes cooking shows, or perhaps just the chance to virtuously learn nothing) as he shuffles over to the couch and flops down on it a little less heavily than usual. Sariel looks like they appreciate it.

He plops his slippers up on the table to tent his legs, then props the baby up on them and gives them his fingers to grab. Sans leans in, sockets flat on the bottom with mild glee. He moves his fingers to make Sari pretend to drive a car (with some impressive ‘vroom vroom’ noises), but his eyes flicker when he looks up.

You and Angie are staring at him.

“…what?”

You wait for an explanation, but Angie’s a little more impatient.

“Where’s Nattie, Sans?” There’s something hard under her voice’s relatively pleasant tone.

“with tori,” he says, like it’s obvious, or like he already told you. “everything ok?”

“Angie’s stressed out because she’s used to always knowing where her kids are all the time,” you explain quickly, and Angie gives you some more Toriel Looks. Unreasonably pressured, you add, “You left with one kid, we had no way to contact you, and then you came back with a different kid.”

“yeah,” Sans agrees, wincing distractedly as Sariel decides to rediscover his nasal cavity with tiny-sharp little skeleton baby kitten claw fingers. “mk was over ta see frisk, then they took off after a lil while. think they decided to go on a date.”

“They just left? Without their baby?” Angie looks vaguely horrified.

“yeah?” Sans seems legitimately baffled. “that’s why i figured it was a date.”

You make a renewed effort to redirect Angie’s anxiety-anger towards yourself, where it can be safely grounded and dispersed (you have a lifetime of practice with that, after all), versus letting her get pissy at Sans, who’s just a confused monster doing his best. He already had someone be mean to him today, too. And you know from experience that his continued inability to react the way she’s expecting him to is just going to piss Ange off more.

In the end, you point out that there’s nothing stopping her from going to Toriel’s herself if she needs to physically confirm that all of her child’s limbs remain attached after a Sans adventure.

She points a long, speculative look at Sans and the infant rasp-plapping their tiny bone hands all over his face. Sans is just wincing and giggling softly, most of his attention taken up with the child he’s caring for. Sariel appears utterly delighted, their sockets big and round, the light-grey points in them changing focus to follow what their hands are doing. Sans even manages to get one of their needlepoint distals unwedged from one of the bigger spaces between two of his teeth with everyone’s lives and limbs intact.

You watch your sister valiantly attempting to convince herself that Sans has no idea what to do with a baby, therefore creating a conflict between leaving to check on Nattie and staying to make sure Sans doesn’t accidentally use Frisk’s baby to plug a hole in the roof. You hold in a sigh and pray for patience. It mostly works.

“Sans raised Papyrus on his own, Ange,” you either inform or remind her delicately. You smile and make round-eyes at her, silently urging her to just go and check on Nattie before she lathers herself any further. “Everything Sari needs is already here,” you add before she voices her disapproval regarding the absence of the enormous baby-satchels she used to carry around. She has the grace to accept that without you having to explain further, nods bracingly, and even wishes you both a good evening before taking herself off to fuss at some people more receptive to her fussing.

You all relax a bit more once she’s gone. When she’s in this mood, she and Toriel can fuss at each other enough they end up canceling each other out, so everyone around them gets a break. They’re honestly good for each other, and Nattie will probably appreciate being able to live their life with Toriel and their mom discussing hypotheticals. They’ll also likely become the beneficiary of Toriel’s coping mechanisms, since Toriel has a few millennia’s worth of experience on Angie regarding the tension-diffusing application of practical and household baking. Nattie’s more than canny enough to have a timely complaint of hunger at the ready to deploy at a crucial moment.

In other words, everyone’s going to calm down and have a nice slice of pie.

You turn your head and grin at Sans until he notices. It takes a while, but you can be patient too, sometimes. Especially when the reward is watching him trot out one of his clunkiest comedy sets for an obviously impressed infant. After all, he’s got a million of em, each one worse than the last, and it’s certainly Sariel’s first time hearing them. Even Frisk has standards. You notice he’s still holding their hands, and his tiny fingertips have the agility to move Sariel’s microscopic hands in a few ASL words to go along with what he’s saying.

Eventually Sans winds it down and leans back, tilts his skull at you questioningly.

“Let’s eat spaghetti,” you suggest, and he takes you up on it. All that pie thinking made you hungry, but you’re more than willing to settle for leftovers. Since Sans stays here so much of the time, there’s never not a wall of sealed containers of Papyrus’s special spaghetti lining the back. It only takes about 20 minutes before all three of you are wearing pasta-shrapnel bibs, having had the bright idea to do impressions of Sari eating. It may have turned into a contest, and Sariel had made a formidable judge. Harsh, but fair. Sari had undeniably been the winner, but had chosen to share their prize with you and Sans. Which turns out to be a sorely-needed bath.

You and Sans smile lovingly at each other, pick off a few of the more egregious piles from your laps and put them on the table before standing, and then make your ceremonious way to the bathtub.

Sans sets his phone on the counter, so he must have pocketed it while you all were eating. You narrow your eyes at it as you grab the jug of supposedly apple-scented green bubble bath Sans likes from under the sink. No...he must have done it just _before_ you started eating, since it’s not covered in spaghetti. Hell yeah. You’re practically Sherlock Holmes.

“…heya, sleepwalker. you gonna pour this round?”

Sans is already barebones with Sari and sitting on the side of the tub, waiting for you to make it green. You laugh and dump about half the bottle in under Sans’s approving gaze, then put it back where it goes. Sans waits for you to get in first, which is a good idea. You’re not the most graceful enterer of bathtubs, and sure enough you do a big slosh-and-groan like a truly magnificent ocean mammal. Sariel judges once again, and Sans reports that it was tens across the board.

Sans hands Sari to you and makes his more nimble way into the water, doing a pleased little shudder as his bones warm up. Then he reaches over and grabs the Sans Bin, filled with clothes, brushes, a few toys, and other objects he apparently requires be present for his bathing, and just dumps it all right in the tub. He puts the bin on the floor outside and reaches for Sari.

“gotta let the green do its job,” he mumbles, sinking down at the same time as Sari so their faces stay level. “see? s’not scary.”

“Is Sariel afraid of baths?”

“dunno. frisk said they don’t like ta stay still for em.”

After a while of soaking quietly, you remember something.

“Did you have a good time dredging ‘dogs with Nattie?”

“yeah. they did most a the work.”

You try using one of Sans’s brushes on your heel callus. It tickles horribly just like it does every time, so you stop.

“Are they okay?”

Sans’s eye lights slide in your direction, then return to Sariel.

“…mm. they said not ta tell their mom.”

You stare down into the water. Hmm, that’s a toughie. He’s implying that he can talk about it with you, but only on the condition that you don’t tell your sister about it. Then again, he also knows you’ll tell her if you decide it’s necessary no matter what, so Sans admitting there’s something to tell instead of deflecting means he’s willing to take that chance.

“Okay.”

Sans slowly ascends with the dripping baby, then balances them on his femur. He fishes out a cloth from the mystery morass below the bubble layer and starts rubbing it gently on their bones.

“nattie isn’t ready to grow up yet,” he says slowly. “so i let em know tori can help with that.”

You let that roll around in your brain for quite some time, but there’s really only one thing he could mean. You take Sariel so Sans can brush spaghetti out of his carpals without juggling. The tub in this house with Ange, the kids, and you and Sans a lot of the time, has a few special taps that supply water from underground. Makes it a lot easier for Sans to clean himself. And now Sari as well, you suppose.

“there are human medicines that can do that too,” you say slowly.

“they know. but their mom’d have ta...um. they hafta _ask_ her? said they aren’t ready ta make that decision either.”

You don’t know how to feel about that.

“Did Toriel do that for Frisk?” you ask quietly.

Sans flaps at some bubbles, then pushes his fingers together and presses down until bubbles squirt through the gaps.

“nats ain’t like frisk,” he says quietly. “frisk didn’t care bout any a that stuff. said whatever happened, they were cool with it. they said, uh...” Sans lifts his drippy hands out of the water to gesture. “I was a child human. I guess now I’m becoming an adult human, and that’s okay with me. The hair’s not great, but I can live with it.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, giving Sans the baby back so you can wash your hair. “That definitely sounds like something Frisk would say.” You change your mind about washing your hair once you notice the ambient spaghetti content of the bathwater. You could rinse with fresh, but Sans is on the side of the tub with the tap so you don’t bother.

“yeah.” Sans grins and slaps at the water some more, then picks up a brush and starts cleaning bones with it underwater. He holds Sariel in his other arm, cradled against his ribs and clavicle with a motion that seems borne of long practice. Like Sans’s hands can’t forget things, either.

“Do skeletons have puberty?”

Sans’s teeth part slightly, and his eyes shrink to tiny points as he gapes at you.

“….yeah, i…think so?” He huffs out a laugh, and his eyes relax again. “now i think on it.” His grin stays where it is, but his expression grows pensive nonetheless. “paps puttin’ on big stripes….” he sighs. “it’s funny. guess i was...grown up by then? but that was the first time i felt like i didn’t know what ta do.”

Sans unerringly fishes a soft cloth out from somewhere in the morass of water, bubbles, objects and bodies, uses it to rub at Sari’s feet. Sari makes a faint grunting noise and bicycle-kicks until the water splishes, because it tickles. Sans looks sheepish, and hands you Sariel and the cloth. “you’re better at that part,” he shrugs.

You are, so you take care of it. Sariel studiously lets you massage-pull along their feet with the cloth over your fingers; you wonder if Sans might be doing it too lightly, so you mention that. He shrugs, then motions for the return of the baby. He carefully snuffles their face to make sure no spaghetti found its way inside any of the holes in their skull that isn’t the mouth hole. Sariel slaps at his maxilla in delight, and Sans seems satisfied by whatever the verdict is. You sigh at the water, then blow on purpose to make bubbles fly around. A blob hits you in the eye, and you wipe it.

“what is it, darlin’?”

“I just thought of something really sad.”

He turns on the water again to warm it up, and you give him a grateful look. It gives you time to collect your thoughts enough to share them. The level stays the same, so he must be draining some of it at the same time.

“How do you keep the washcloths from stopping the drain?”

Sans cradles Sari again, turns off the tap and fishes around in the unknowable depths once more. He pulls up a thing that looks like chopsticks tied together in a nonsense arrangement, slightly warped from use.

“’s what this thing’s for.”

Oh. You nod slowly with raised eyebrows. He grins, goes faintly iridescent for a second. Which reminds you.

“I think Angie still thinks of you like you’re a human man, sometimes.”

“…heh.” Sans lifts Sari up quickly so their sockets get all round and big, then he mimics their facial expression at them as much as he can. Sans lowers them back in the water slowly so they huff and flail in delight, their frenetic kicking creating a big sploshy reentry. “’m a skeleton, though.”

“Yep.” You find another cloth in the tub, wring it out and use it to rub your face a bunch. Then you put it back underwater and squeeze it.

“Sometimes the kids would say things to Matt that made him realize he was kinda of a crappy, absent father. Not even meaning anything by it, just saying kid stuff, you know? Like asking if he’d be around for something they were doing. But he acted like they did it on purpose to criticize his parenting or something...as if kids even think like that. And then he’d be extra dickish around them for a day or two. Just...dismissive, like he didn’t have time for them.” A glance at Sans shows that...yep, he’s appalled. “So...Angie knows you’re not like that, but she can’t help feeling worried about it. Because she knows Nattie hurt your feelings for like, two seconds.”

Sans doesn't say anything to that, since he doesn’t really need to. Instead, he brings Sari close until their tiny forehead rests against his teeth, and then he hums a quiet but complicated little tune. Sari’s downturned face looks fascinated, and their little grey eye-points change focus quite a few times as the tune changes. Sans’s voice continues to be extremely pleasant in tone, despite its slightly flat, careless delivery. No words or anything, at least none you understand. It’s a nice way to pass the time until the water goes from hot-hot to just regular-hot again.

Sans gets out first after handing you Sariel, so he can wrap himself up in one of the huge toriel-towels like it’s a hooded robe. Then he sits on the floor outside the tub and takes Sari so you can get out, starts drying them absently with a free corner of the towel. He seems extra distracted, so once you’re dried and wrapped in your own towel, you sit on the edge of the tub. You’re certainly limber enough for that after your epic soak. Hee hee. You have raisin fingers, something the other two certainly don’t have to worry about.

“guess they’re talking about it,” Sans says after a few more minutes. “with, uh. tori n their mom.”

“Oh.” Pie cures all that ails once again. “Guess I don’t have to keep it a secret then.”

Sans’s eyes turn to you quickly. “don’t say anything to their mom,” he says in a low, steady tone. You swallow, look down. Guess Nattie’s been living in Ebott for almost half their life now, too. Kids take to changes like ducks to water, you suppose. You’re allowed to _know_ , but not to talk about it with...people? With Angie, at least.

But it does settle your heart that she knows, now.

“Thanks for telling me,” you try, and Sans seems satisfied with your politeness for now.

You think about that for a bit while Sans puts all the dirty clothes into his phone, presumably to be added to his laundry list. As far as you’ve noticed, it can experience exponential growth without being promoted to the top. You all get in your comfy clothes, which for Sans are the same clothes he always wears. Sans waits for you to brush your teeth, makes a few jokes about exposed bones, then you all trundle back downstairs. The dining room looks like it lost a spaghetti war, but Sans’ll eventually take care of it as long as everyone else has the sense to leave it until he wakes up.

Sans looks down at Sari, gives them a little bounce. “you feelin’ sleepy there, bud?”

A smile tugs at your lips. “Sariel doesn’t sleep, though.”

“mm. papyrus didn’t either for a long time. i got a whole thing for that.” Sans looks speculatively at the couch, then just...bats one of the pillows off onto the floor. There aren't enough, so he starts pulling pillows out of his phone too, then adds blankets (and a few items of possibly dirty clothing) until there’s a donut-shaped nest on the floor. The sides seem like they’re high enough to prevent a not-entirely-ambulatory infant from escaping.

Then Sans lies down in it himself, and you start laughing as you make yourself comfortable on the couch.

He gives you a bemused look as he stuffs a small, extra-smushy pillow in the space between his pelvis and ribcage, pulls his shirt back down, then sets Sari front-down on his makeshift belly. They bicycle their arms and legs around baby-style for a minute, then settle. The pillow probably reminds them of Frisk, as does being set down on it like this. Sans uses his hands to balance and soothe them, the same way Frisk sometimes uses their inner arms to hold them and talk at the same time. Sari looks a little wary at first, but after a minute or so they chill out to a degree that appears to impress even them.

Sans seems taken aback by your expression when he finally looks up from Sari.

“what?”

“You always come up with solutions for things I’d never think of in a million years,” you say fondly. “If I’m stuck in my ways, you always...unstick me. I don’t know, it just always gets me right in the heart. It makes me love you even more.”

Sans gives you an astounded look. His magic seethes across his face in the dim light, but he seems struck speechless. Which is enough of a rarity that you continue to see if it’ll happen more.

“I mean it, though. I just like...how you do things. It’s kind of chaotic and counterintuitive, but it works for you. You do things how _you_ can do them, and I really appreciate it. It’s this…efficient, mellow chaos, even when you’re sleeping.” You sigh happily. “It makes me feel like I can do things how it works for me, and that’s okay. I don’t have to be any particular way, and that maybe it’s good if I’m not.”

Sans pets his grandbaby’s tiny spine, looking awfully soft for someone made of bone.

“yeah,” he whispers. “me too.”

“Hmm?”

He looks at you, that same soft smile playing over his features. “love you, too.”

“How do you know what Sari needs when they don’t cry?” You’ve asked Frisk the same thing, but you’ve never asked Sans. He’s a skeleton too, after all. Maybe his skeleton senses are tingling.

“jus’ gotta pay real close attention,” he says easily. You huff and grin, then frown as you consider his words more carefully. Come to think of it, his attention’s been utterly glued to Sariel since he’s been home.

“Is it odd that they don’t make any sounds?”

“dunno,” Sans admits without looking away from Sariel’s increasingly relaxed expression. “paps never stopped makin’ noise, though. even before he talked.” It never occurred to you Sans might be worried about it. You form a tentative opinion that perhaps he is, but you don’t ask him any more about it right now. He’s had enough being upset for today.

“A lot of humans assume I don’t like kids,” you say instead. Sans gives you a confused look, and you do a little side-shrug. “I know. There’s this idea that book-smart people don’t like kids, and that people who don’t _have_ kids don’t _like_ kids...and...” you exhale in amusement, “…that only women should like kids. Stuff like that.”

“….weird,” Sans comments. Then his sockets start listing again.

“Yeah.” He looks at you; you wink at him. “I’m gonna turn a show on without the sound.”

“okay,” he sighs, already looking super sleepy again. Funny thing is, Sariel’s looking much the same. And sure enough….when Sans finally snores himself off to dreamland, Sari’s sockets close too, and they get still except for the occasional chitter of their fist against their teeth.

You lie down and pull a blanket haphazardly over yourself, but end up caught up in your show because there’s a three-episode arc that’s one of your favorites going on. It’s better without the sound, in your opinion. The explosions are pretty without sounding like explosions, too. Also you maybe belatedly regret having afternoon coffee with Ange.

It grows late, but as far as you can tell, Sariel really is asleep to some degree. You look forward to letting Sans know about his achievement in case someone comes to collect Sariel before he awakens. The nest structure certainly keeps him stationary even if he goes into deep sleep, and even his worst night terrors aren’t the thrashing kind. With his arms like that, there’s really nowhere for Sari to go.

Every once in a while you can hear Shonda shuffling around upstairs, but you don’t expect to see her again until the morning. She even has her own bathroom up there off her bedroom, which works out awesome for everyone. Your chest hurts with happiness, because you can help provide that kind of life for them. You let the show distract you from thinking about why you don’t take it for granted. No crying tonight.

Eventually the door opens and Frisk comes in. They walk around the couch silently, then come sit next to you to stare at their child’s most recent achievement.

“Wow,” they gesture. “I had a feeling if anyone was going to teach Sari how to sleep, it’d be Sans.” They use their informal name-sign for him; the motion for ‘smile’, but with the finger position for ‘bones’. Neither of you talk much. It’s not awkward, but you do eventually realize Frisk seems uncertain about something. Sariel’s obviously settled in...but Frisk isn’t moving to settle in themself. You move your hand to get Frisk’s attention.

“You can stay as long as you want,” you gesture, having eventually realized Frisk’s never actually spent the night _here_ for no good reason you can think of. The look on their face makes you blush, and you make a mental note to have a talk about it with Sans later. You’d just assumed Sans let them know they can stay over here, but it seems like he hasn’t. Is there some sort of protocol you’re missing? And now Frisk’s downright flustered. Oh, geez.

“There’s blankets down there, and food in the kitchen if you’re hungry. You can just sleep right here, or take my bed if that doesn’t work.”

“I ate, but thanks” they say, blushing even in the blueish light the tv casts. “Just...we…don’t always get along,” they add hesitantly. You’re not sure if they mean you, or Sans, or anyone else who stays here, but you don’t care. Also they look like they might cry and you already decided No Crying tonight.

“What does that have to do with anything?” you sign lightly. “Sari’s sleeping, and you should, too. It’s late.”

Frisk smiles, takes a deep breath and lets whatever’s bothering them so much go. “While I can, right? I always have to have someone who can spot me while I sleep...but Sans can tell me what he did to make it work in the morning.”

“I think Sans worries a little because they don’t cry,” you offer. “Papyrus used to fuss a lot, so he has to pay super close attention to see what Sariel needs.

Frisk lets out a big sigh. “I feel like that all the time. I know they don’t cry, but it’d be kind of wasted on me anyways. I would have to pay just as close attention.”

You nod, even though it makes you wonder if monster babies could cry in a way that Frisk could understand. That soul-understand thing monsters do.

“It must be weird having a monster baby,” you say instead once Frisk is settled. They don’t even bother to change. Or brush their teeth, but hey. You’re not judging.

Frisk’s eyes narrow in amusement, and they shake their head with a really strange expression. “No, I’m incredibly relieved,” they gesture surprisingly. Your frown at them, and the expression increases.

“I wouldn’t have the first idea what to do with a _human_ baby,” they flap out desperately, as if the mere idea is enough to terrify them. You know what a dirty diaper smells like, so you can’t really blame them. “I’m used to monsters.”

You quietly laugh yourself right to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole Sans’s ‘draws a snail and insists it’s something else’ prank wholesale from peachmeowzipan’s Life Like A Ghibli Movie: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18554194
> 
> L'esprit de l'escalier or l'esprit d'escalier is a phrase borrowed from French, and it means the thing where you think of the perfect comeback or joke way too late to use it. The literal meaning is “wit of the staircase” like you already left the party or whatever. I think it’s Diderot’s fault or something.


	3. all worked out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reader’s work desk becomes hot real estate, Papyrus designs an outfit around an inflatable swim ring, and Sans is occasionally conscious
> 
> The Smiths – Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now  
> https://youtu.be/TjPhzgxe3L0

“Yes. I think everything will be...”

You hold your office door open for Loox (and Migosp), but trail off when you see that Sans is sprawled cross your desk. Facedown and snoring.

Welp. Guess he’s back from his trip.

You smile, shake your head, and follow the monster interested in home health certification into your office. Then you walk around your desk from the front, duck down to replace one of his slippers on his foot from where it’s fallen off onto the floor. His knees are held straight by the surface of the desk, but his feet are dangling off the edge.

The appointment goes fine, since you don’t actually need any of the papers Sans is sleeping on to do your job. That’s more a collection of lists and hand-drawn charts you’re working on for your own papers, weird notes that seemed really important at the time, and a few drawing outlines you’re saving for next Art Date with Nattie. Work stuff can all be taken care of on your viewer.

Once Loox leaves with his home health certification registration complete, Migosp feels like it can let you know it actually wants to take some pottery classes instead. Once that’s done and Migosp departs, you summon your viewer even though Sans isn’t snoring anymore.

“heya, good-lookin’,” he drawls without moving.

“Oh noooo,” you lament at your viewer. “My desk is h _au_ nted. Guess I’ll have to call maintenance for another exorcism….”

“nah….’m too lazy to get exorcise,” he says, then flops over onto his side to face you, rumpling all the papers. One actually slips out and flutters to the floor. “whatcha up to?” His grin is sweet, but the grooves under his sockets are deep and bruised-looking.

“Working,” you lilt playfully, still pretending to read things on your viewer.

“mm….condolences.” And he turns back over, scrunching up the papers and plants his face back on the desk. Seems like that’s a lot more comfortable when you have a big hole in the middle of your face instead of a nose. The snoring resumes after about thirty seconds. You adjust your viewer to spread over Sans’s butt area, then expand the typing matrix underneath. You’ve got a meeting with Diane in about ten minutes, so you don’t want to get started on anything that’ll suck you down the research rabbithole...you do, however, pull out your phone and send a message to Papyrus.

Me: Sans is sleeping on my desk.

You receive an answer near-instantaneously. Hmm.

PAPYRUS: DON’T WORRY, I’LL BE THERE TO PICK YOU UP IN ABOUT AN HOUR.

Me: That’s not….

You just delete that before sending it. Anything you say is not likely to change the fact that Papyrus will be there to pick you up in an hour. Despite the fact that you were unaware that that was the solution to the not-a-problem that you currently have.

me: Okay?

PAPYRUS: YOU’RE WELCOME.

You look up at a knock on your open doorjamb.

“Oh, come on in,” you tell Diane. “How did the seminar go?” Diane gives your haunted desk a raised eyebrow, but you just shrug.

“Like four people showed up,” she gripes, and you try not to smirk.

“You can say things that make people _think_ it’s mandatory they go without actually _saying_ it’s mandatory, you know.” Like you said the last time she complained about this, and possibly the time before that. Diane huffs and puffs at you like she does as she sits primly on your battered office loveseat.

“You know, for an ethicist, you’re really fond of taking the low road.”

“I mean, I’m not really arguing with you there, but making sure people know the protocol for...”

Anyways, you wrangle about it happily for a few more minutes. Sans’s snores would usually disrupt your hearing enough to make it hard for you to understand Diane without lipreading, but she signs along out of habit. Which you’re grateful for. It’s actually kind of touching how much she wants to make sure you understand. Except now she wants to talk about the budgeting thing, and you really, really would rather she just give you the papers to sign instead of explaining it.

“Wow,” Diane interrupts herself. “A whole two minutes before you started making the i-need-the-bathroom face this time.”

“Sorry. I’m trying to be nicer,” you blurt.

Diane blinks at that.

“Why?”

“Um, because? It seems like a good thing?”

She shakes her head.

“So...you know I can’t come to work on bad pain days,” you explain, surprising yourself a little. Sans’s snoring doesn’t stop, but it gets a little softer. “I’m trying to make _nicer_ a habit because I can be... mean to people. On bad days...when I don’t feel good. It’s not cute.”

She doesn’t really need to say that spending years in academia puts you in the habit of both speaking with authority and not qualifying anything you say, even when you probably should, because you’re both like that. It’s how either of you got this far. It’s the only way to get things done most of the time, or to make sure people listen. Even now, a lot of the people you work with indirectly are very invested in essentially meaningless hierarchies, and expect them to be maintained.

All Diane says is “Oh,” and then just gives you the papers to sign. Which is the outcome you were hoping for. Hell yeah, social skills.

“Um, so….I also have to take off a little early today,” you mention, and now _she’s_ making the bathroom face. Honesty seems to be going well today, so you opt for more. “I can finish it tonight. But Papyrus is going to be here for me in...” you glance at your viewer, “twenty-five minutes.”

That definitely changes her expression. Papyrus hanging out and waiting for you to be done working so he can take you home isn’t a...problem, exactly. But no one can actually get any work done until he’s done waiting, so it’s a bit of an eternal stalemate situation.

“Oh. Yeah, you...do that.”

“Thanks, Diane.” She looks around for a spot to tap her sheaf of signed papers, then grins and does waggly-eyebrow-you’re-getting-laid face at you as she departs with her papers to tap elsewhere. You look down at the unconscious skeleton you are not likely to be getting laid by anytime soon. Unless laying down counts. There’s probably going to be a lot of that.

“You’re lucky she didn’t tap her papers on your sleepy skull,” you murmur softly. The snores don’t change, so you figure it’s up to him whether or not he takes your warning if he decides to do this again.

You get a head start on the thing you’re supposed to finish, which is coming up with points for a presentation Diane has to give some money people or other. It’s just the outline, which she’ll have to fill in with actual words. But you’re good at putting them together, along with doing some quick research into the people involve and how the whole asking for money process functions in this case. It doesn’t bother you to do that for her considering you get paid a wee lump of money, and you’re also allowed to say no. Which you do sometimes, but you usually let her know someone or somewhere to ask instead. She does the actual ~wearing nice (uncomfortable) clothes and speaking (asskissing) to the groups of people who aren’t there to learn anything~ so you don’t have to, and it works out perfectly. And if you say you’ll have it done, you will.

You hear Papyrus well before you see him, so you dismiss your viewer. Well, yes, his voice, but also a chorus of faint squeaky noises. When he appears dramatically in your doorway, you assume that’s due to his outfit being mostly made of something purple, plasticlike, and strategically opaque in a few spots.

“Hi,” you say nicely. “Are you wearing a pool floatie?”

“YES,” Papyrus announces proudly. “ITS PURPOSE WILL BECOME CLEAR IN THE COURSE OF IMMEDIATELY.”

He stalks into your office and scoops up his brother on one hip, then...scoops _you_ up out of your chair and plants you on the other. Oh. The inflatable ring around his pelvis _does_ keep his iliac crest from splitting your cooch in half, which may have been a dire warning you gave him at some point or the other. You look around, but you’re already wearing your bag... and all the stuff that’s supposed to be in them, is. Who knows, maybe you actually did remember to do that part.

“Looks like I’m all set,” you inform your bipedal transportation. So, with a pleased little _Nyeh_ , the world’s tallest living skeleton proceeds to carry you and your slumbering bonefriend through the admin offices and out of the building. Wearing an outfit made of mostly transparent purple plastic ruffles and a matching belt that resembles a hemorrhoid cushion.

“How was work?” you ask him politely during this process.

“I HAD TO CALL THE MANAGER,” he explains. You muffle your snortled laughter into his padded plasticky shoulder as he spends the rest of the walk complaining about it. When a human customer makes a fuss and refuses to become unfussed under Papyrus’s judicious application of customer service, he leaves the room and “calls the manager.”

That means he literally just gets in his little red sports car and goes home for the day, leaving whoever decided to annoy him standing there in an abandoned shop for however long it takes for them to realize he’s not coming back.

Papyrus owns the flower shop he works in.

Even humans inclined to thievery are stymied by the fact that he doesn’t keep money anywhere except his own person; those inclined to vent their frustration with destruction discover that everything in the place that isn’t flowers is made of easily replaced and expertly painted cardboard. The only one who’d ever tried to burn it down had been found shortly afterward a block away trying desperately to make love to a mailbox, so maybe there’s also something _in_ the cardboard. Papyrus certainly has his ways of making friends with exotic plants.

You wave goodbye to a few people, and they wave back since Papyrus’s monologue is uninterruptible. Chell, the Moldbygg from the bursar’s office, wiggles sexily. Papyrus would put you down if you asked him to but...hmm. You’re starting to see the appeal Sans finds in being carried around. Makes you feel kind of important.

“NOW THAT WE’RE OUT OF THE BUILDING AND YOU ARE OFFICIALLY NO _LONGER_ WORKING, HOW WAS WORK?”

“Fine,” you say as Papyrus opens his trunk and starts taking out pillows and blankets. While still carrying you both. Somehow. “My desk got haunted by a living skeleton, but he returned to his eternal slumber after I successfully answered his riddles one. And then another living skeleton came and picked me up early. I think they’re brothers or something.”

“THAT SOUNDS LIKE A BLAST!” Papyrus puts some pillows on one end of the long backseat, the blankets on the front seat, then just kind of lies you down in the back with your head on the pillows.

“Is it a special occasion?” you ask wonderingly, going with the flow of whatever this is. It’s been inevitable since your fateful decision to message Papyrus; you implied a need for help, and he’s helping. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“OF COURSE IT’S A SPECIAL OCCASION!!!” Papyrus arranges you to his satisfaction, then puts Sans, still sleeping, lying on his back on top of you with his snoring skull under your chin. “YOU GOT OFF WORK EARLY. WE SHOULD CELEBRATE.”

You can’t really argue with that.

Papyrus frowns. Then he palms his brother’s skull like a basketball and lifts it to lean him over, pads your recently exposed abdomen with a quilt, and carefully replaces him. Which is nice, since it diffuses the slightly pointy pressure of his vertebral processes. He piles the rest of the bedding in around you...and then buckles the seatbelts securely around the overstuffed meat and bone burrito he’s created. You notice it is now somewhat difficult to move.

“Hey, Papyrus?”

“NNNYES?”

“This seems kinda kinky.”

“INDEED, AND HOW DARE YOU. HOWEVER. ONE PERSON’S KINK IS ANOTHER’S LATEST IN SAFETY TECHNOLOGY FOR STARGAZING.” Papyrus plants a hand on his little red convertible and does a cool, showy leap into the driver’s seat, then immediately turns on the music (Sans’s jangly guitar mix, mostly The Smiths) so he can pretend to not hear any further complaints you may have.

You don’t have any, but he doesn’t need to know that. Mildly annoying Papyrus is kind of addictive. Like touching a cat’s little paw pads and watching them pull their foot back with a huff, then tuck them under their body so you can’t get it anymore. You kiss Sans’ skull instead, and to your surprise he makes a little snortle and wakes up.

“...huh? you done work?”

“For now,” you answer easily. “Papyrus picked me up early, but I have to do a little more work later tonight. Apparently we’re stargazing? ….safely?”

Sans makes a pleased little noise. “how was work?”

“Fine,” you grin. “You slept through most of it. I don’t actually need those papers on my desk, you know.”

“there were papers?”

“Yes. Are we on a date?”

“’f you want it to be,” Sans replies, squirming and moving his head like he’s trying to look up at you. He can’t manage it, and gives up after about four seconds of the old college try.

“Hmmm…..that depends.” The sky’s moving, or maybe you are. It’s nice. “Are you hungry?”

“already ate.” Ahh. He must have stopped off at Grillby’s before his desk nap. Makes sense, since that’s what he usually does first thing when he gets back in town. His bones _are_ decidedly unscented the way they are after one of Grillby’s sterilizing “hugs”. Well, other than a faint whiff of one of your markers you must have left uncapped on your desktop when you whuffle all over his skull. Sans makes an almost-giggle.

“Are you going to feed me later?” you ask once you’re done sniffing him.

“got some ‘dogs.”

“Hot?”

“nah.”

“I’ll settle. Okay, it’s a date.”

“mmm. nice.”

“The sunset’s really pretty,” you say after a while, since it is. “What’s that color? Fuchsia?”

“think so,” Sans agrees. You spend a while trying to creep your arms around under all the blankets and seatbelts to try and find his hands. Then you turn it into a game of hot-cold, since Sans can see in there, but apparently can’t move at all. It’s been full dark for about half an hour by the time you manage to squirm your fingers into his hoodie pockets along with his bones.

“I’m glad we have all these-”

“YOU’RE WELCOME!!!”

“...blankets,” you finish, since Papyrus is already wiggling his finger so you’ll know he’s listening to the music and not whatever your reply might be. He’s put his own mix back on, 80s pop and a bunch of Selena. The chill wind whips down into the open top of the car hard enough to make you narrow your eyes. “We must be pretty high up.”

“lil bit, yeah,” Sans muses. High enough that the light pollution’s not too bad. The stars look icy and crisp. You let yourself really think about it for a second, and your heart gives an excited, mildly anxious series of thuds. Sans makes a curious noise you can feel more than hear, and you squeeze his hard fingers to let him know you’re just enjoying yourself. Thinking about the stars and how far they are, how they look so close. How they remind you of Sans’s eyes.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the spaces between them.

When you go to work with Sans, you and Alphys talk a lot. Especially when Sans needs a nap. That’s why you know that sometimes when Sans goes on his work trips, a lot of things bother him. Stuff he sees, the situations behind the ones he’s directly dealing with. There are whole teams of people who’re in charge of the people-stuff, so Sans and Alphys can implement solutions and install whatever needs to be installed. Bringing light, heat, and other benefits of CORE power to everyone in the world, or at least anyone who asks for the right reasons. But Sans doesn't need to talk to people to read their expressions, and he doesn't need to leave the site to see what people are doing, what they're having done to them. Ebott's a lot better off than a lot of places, and certainly most of the ones in dire need of what he an Alphys are providing.

And sometimes Sans ‘takes a walk’, because the world’s kind of a mess, and it gets to be too much for him. Alphys doesn’t know what he does when he goes, and you haven’t asked him about it. You might at some point if he doesn't bring it up first, but you’re not in a hurry. The part of you that’s always a little aware of Sans feels extremely tired and kind of sore; Alphys had messaged you...yesterday, was it? To mention that everything was going well, that Sans would likely be home the next day, and that he’d gone for one of his walks.

Monsters hadn’t really expected to surface into a world that was ending, but they’re used to taking what they’re given.

Sans squeezes your fingers back. Then, much to your delight, he decides to trot out a collection of pending comedy routines for your judgement. He really must have a million of them, because there’s always at least one or two new ones in each steamy load he presents for your disapproval. This one’s got a few real winners in it, so you make sure to let him know he should save them for emergencies instead of putting them in his usual show rotation.

“Definitely save that one for Papyrus,” you snortle."You're lucky I don't have to pee."

“…eh. jus’ go in your space suit, like an astronaut.”

Sadly you do _eventually_ have to pee, which coincides with Papyrus finally pulling up in front of your place. You invite him in, but it turns out he has plans of some kind. Angie and the kids are at Toriel’s again, so you and Sans just drop trou as soon as you get in the door and wander up to bed (after a pit stop for you, of course). He does deliver on his promise of feeding you. It turns out he did a fib and instead of tepid ‘dogs he produces a surprise item he’d acquired on his trip. It’s some kind of dried-fried vegetables, and you munch them down happily enough. Really greasy and salty. It’s nice. His phone’s out with one of his sci fi novels pulled up (you think; it’s in Chinese), but his tired-soft eyes watch you eat instead, a quirky smile pulling at the corners of his fixed grin.

“So, I’m gonna work on that thing from earlier,” you let him know, and he looks down at the bed.

“yeah,” he tells the bed with a vague smile, then flops over with a pillow under his chin to read. You take a while on the presentation since you don’t want Diane to think you’re too bonewhipped to get shit done, and you vaguely register Sans disrobing the rest of the way and settling in, pulling up the blanket with a soft little huff. You pet his skull absently, then work for another twenty minutes or so. You’re basically done when you turn away and look down, expecting him to be fast asleep.

Sans is lying on his side with his skull half-buried in the pluffy pillow, but he’s not actually sleeping. His sockets aren’t even closed; he’s just kind of...staring at your elbow. The grooves under his sockets look an inch deep, and it takes like ten seconds for him to realize you’re looking at him. The tense white points in his sockets jitter, then lift to meet your gaze. You exhale slowly in sympathy; the skin under your eyes feels tight.

“Are you okay, shortiepie?” you ask before he has a chance to blow it off.

Instead of giggling or deflecting, Sans gives you a tremulous smile. He looks exhausted. “think i need to, uh…” His white phalanges peep out from under the covers, and he makes the gesture for exposing his soul.

You think about that for a minute, then dismiss your viewer. “I’m guessing you don’t mean for sex?”

He shakes his skull slightly, looks back at your elbow. “lemme know ‘f it’s weird, but…would it bother you if i did it here?

You can’t think of any reason why that would bother you. “Did you want me to do anything special?”

“no,” he says simply. “’s why it might be weird? jus’ don't…feel right,” he mumbles, iridescence drifting across his features as he shifts around under the blanket aimlessly. “helps me sleep.” You fish under the covers for his hand. He lets you find it, so you give it a little squeeze.

“That’s why you go and come back sometimes, right?”

He shrugs. “yeah, sometimes. i c'n do it now, ’s not a big deal." His eye lights flick at your eyes, then away. "still feels good, though.” The unspoken portion of the conversation being that he’s not in the mood for sex. And that he will continue to not be in the mood for sex, even if you get turned on.

You and Sans both spend time alone with your own souls when you’re feeling fucked up, ill, or out of sorts. It’s your understanding that all monsters do that (and humans that are able to as well, although the percentage of humans who know how is still vanishingly small). You touch your soul for that reason much more often than you have sex with it. Souls out plus Sans is certainly a sexualized circumstance for you, but there’s no reason it has to be. The concept makes you wonder briefly if monsters who’ve been close for a long time might do a little soul-searching in each other’s presence sometimes.

“not the kinda thing monsters really talk about,” he adds before you have a chance to ask him if it’s a monster relationship thing. And there’s another smile for you, tired as he is. Waiting for you to answer, for as long as you need.

“Can I hold you while you do it?”

The expression that melts over his features you’d almost call desire, but it’s not sexual. Like he’s overwhelmed at work and you interrupted to bring him a mug of his favorite tea….but he’s much happier to see _you_.

“yeah,” he says thickly. “y...yeah.”

“Okay.” You smile and lie down, then roll to your side and lift your arm. “Come here.”

His expression’s odd, like ‘i knew you’d be okay with this,’ layered on top of ‘i was really worried you’d be upset i even asked.’ Both at once, not lined up properly. Huh. Either way, he flops over to face away from you and cuddles his hard skeleton butt eagerly right into the warm, soft curve of your body. He trembles when you wrap an arm around him, lays his neck over your bicep.

Sans’s breathing is deep and unsteady as his fingers explore his sternum and collarbone; not exactly labored, but different than usual. He sucks in a breath and holds it for a long pause, then lets it out as he pulls his soul. He slides his fingers right in, and he touches himself in a different way than you’re used to seeing. Not stroking; more like he’s looking for something.

He’s using his topmost hand to do it at first, even though it’s his right. He twines his other arm with yours and pulls it across his eyes. He rubs his closed sockets back and forth against your skin for a while, his body still and his breathing slightly strained. With a little displeased sound, he shifts to move his arm down and switch hands. His teeth press your arm just before letting it go, and you fold it under his skull to pillow it.

The smooth sensation of his dentalium lingers, but they weren’t warm or anything. He folds his topmost arm over yours, presses lightly at the elbow, then takes your fingers in his and rubs them absently. His soul is always so lovely, its pale glow gilded by cyan and yellow iridescence that flits over the surface, sometimes following his fingers, sometimes swirling away from them. It’s soothing, almost hypnotic.

“…i like it,” he whispers when you start wondering how he feels about the fact that you’re looking at him. Since he can _literally_ feel it. “’s nice.” You’re glad he likes it, even if you can’t see his feelings and desires like a monster can.

You only notice the resonance of his soul and body had been slightly...off, in a way you’d be hard-pressed to describe more than that, when it finally syncs back up. “huh...” he murmurs, vague and dreamy now. Sans lets out another heavy sigh tinged with relief. The way Sans has his fingers looks very specific. Like he’s holding a shape inside himself, instead of stroking the shape he is. Then you hear his hitching little breaths, and he bends the tips of his fingers in slightly.

You know the soft exhale he makes when he pushes his magic as well as your own voice, but it’s shakier right now. A tension you didn’t entirely realize had been there eases out of him, and you close your eyes and nudge your forehead back and forth on his occipital bone for a bit. Sans makes a tiny, soft noise, and strokes your forearm over and over with his thumb where he holds it. He shivers and lets out another near-silent, shaky breath, and you can feel even more lassitude soaking into his limbs. When he inhales again, there’s a subvocal little catch to it; you only recognize the loose hiccup when he pulls his soul back toward himself. Its soft light winks out, and he immediately flops over to face you, rubbing at his sockets.

He wiggles forward, ducking his head to tuck his skull under your chin. He squirms right in to tangle your limbs together, but when his pelvis gets close for a second you can feel an unexpected heat radiating from it. He brings his knees up a little, but still seems eager to cuddle. 

“Did your genitalia come out?” you ask after a minute or two. He tenses, and you pet his spine up and down soothingly. “You don’t have to tell me,” you reassure him.

“yeah,” he whispers after a long pause. He’s embarrassed.

Oh. “Bodies just do things, remember? I only assume you change your mind if you tell me you did.” Also you don't want any sex anyways, but he can probably tell. 

Sans tries to get closer despite its impossibility, like he usually does when he’s seeking comfort. You’re happy to give it, and he surprises you by talking some more.

“i get weird thoughts sometimes.”

“I know.” You pet his occipital bone gently, feeling happy and satisfied. And sleepy too, now.

“sometimes i think you’re bored,” he whispers softly, a little muffled because he’s burrowing his face into the blankets over your chest. “...with me. and i know it’s wrong, jus’...can’t stop thinkin’ it. knew i just needed to take some time and do my thing, but i didn’t want to leave,” he admits thickly. “once i got back…i didn’t wanna be away from you.”

“Then I’m glad you didn’t go,” you say simply. He shudders, then finally relaxes the rest of the way. “Can I ask you something?”

“yeah.”

“You pushed magic in, right?”

He gets still. “….yeah. sorry.”

You make to pull back, but his arms tighten slightly. You let him hide.

“Why are you sorry?”

“shoulda told you i was gonna before,” he whispers. “i always do it when i’m on my own, but…” Sans is very particular about communicating that sort of thing. And he has his reasons, but you're fine with everything that happened.

“I get what you mean, but I’m not bothered by it. I’m curious because I don’t have context for monster things. We don’t have to talk about it if it bothers you.”

Sans goes back to being regular-still instead of upset-still. “….s’okay. something in particular on your mind?”

“I’m just wondering if the pushing’s always a sex feeling,” you muse quietly, rubbing his shoulderblade with the inside of your wrist. “My usual bullshit. Wondering if monsters would always think of it that way, or...if they talk about it...”

“i don’t know.” He finally pulls back enough for you to see each other. “you wondering if that’s why it came out?”

“No,” you admit easily. “Your skeleton business always just does whatever it wants, so...”

That makes him grin. “sure does.”

“Would you be okay with it if I wanted to do it like that? With you here?”

Sans looks unexpectedly pensive. “dunno. gotta think on it, i guess.” That surprises you a bit, but then you consider for him, seeing it is also kind of a-

“i’d close my eyes,” he interrupts your…thoughts.

“Okay.” You free a hand from the bone-a constrictor to pet his skull, press with your fingers the way he likes. “That wasn't weird for me,” you say just in case. “I don’t mind if you want to do that sometimes.”

“k.”

“Do you feel better?”

“think so,” he mumbles. “’m tired.”

Sans gives an uncomfortable little squirm.

“You doing okay, Sansypants?”

Sans leans back with an annoyed huff.

“jus’ want it to go away,” he says, darting a sheepish glance at you as he untangles himself. He grunts and leans up on an elbow, which makes the blanket fall away. He opens his legs and rummages up the leg of his shorts for a second, pauses thoughtfully, then removes his hand and closes them again with a muffled clack. Sans rolls back on his side to hold you some more. You pull the blanket back up over you both, and his sigh sounds a lot more content.

“’s a cunny shape,” he mumbles, sounding sleepier by the moment. “been keeping track of it to see if i can figure out a pattern. no reason to fuck up my data jus’ cause i’m mad at it.”

You can’t help it. You snort. “you’re too cute,” you say against his skull, “sorry, it’s just…even your junk must answer to science...”

That wins a weak but sincere giggle from him, and he gives you a big squeeze and a little sigh.

“love you.”

“Me too. I want to go with you.”

“mm?”

“When you go to sleep,” you murmur. “Do the thing so I go with you.”

A soft, sleepy little huff. His arms tighten for one more hug, like he hopes it’ll last all night.

“okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a twitter for fic and fandom things! I do art and stuff there. Also talk about bone(r)s.   
> https://twitter.com/gilded_pleasure


	4. laid this morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An impromptu talent show at Sans’s Intermittent Genitalia Roulette Bed And Grille

“wakey, wakey….” Sans rumbles, rubbing your arm like he does when he wants to wake you, which is almost never. You grunt and suck in a breath, move to rub at the dent a bone left in your forehead, and open your eyes. You blink and squint to clear them.

Sans is giving you his this-is-hilarious face. Already. For some reason.

“...eggs n bakey, cept i don’ have any.” He winks. “so, uh. you horny or something?”

You wouldn’t kick a plate of his suspiciously crunchy eggs out of bed right now, but...your brain catches up to the second part of what he said in the middle of the thought.

“Huh?” you croak.

“had your leg in there for a while now,” he huffs, sounding awfully amused. It takes you a minute to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about, but eventually you discover your leg’s between his femurs, snug up in his pubic arch. And something soft and hot’s planted right above your knee.

“Oh. Shit, sorry,” you mumble, removing your leg as he sighs happily, scratching his vertebrae. “Why...didn’t you move me?”

“well. mostly ‘cause i was asleep too,” he giggles, “and now _i’m_ horny.”

You sit up, still trying to assess the situation. You’re not really at your best first thing in the morning. “Can I have some tea?”

“i dunno,” he drawls, laying there like a total load. “can you?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter, then flop right on top of him to steal his phone off the little table on his side. You pull out some sea tea and knock it back, then deliberately set phone and mug on top of his ribcage. It takes some balancing, but you’re not about to pass on decorating him with discards, since he’s starting the day off stooping to second-grade teacher jokes.

“Is anyone home?”

“nah. let em flap.”

It’s your day off, you remember. You exit the bed nudely and go busy yourself with toilets and toothbrushes while the tea does its work. Today seems like a really good day to stay in bed, especially if Sans is idling somewhere adjacent to the bone zone.

When you rejoin him Sans is indeed all sultry smiles and smooth hardness, slithering into your embrace like a segmented snake. He’s naked too, and most of the bedding has somehow bunched itself up beneath his body in the meantime. You hug him and wiggle your hand between his sacrum and a pillow to get a nice, thorough grope in. He hums happily; the bone under your hand is warmish and thrumming.

“Hi _horny_ , I’m _dad_ ,” you whisper belatedly against his skull, then lean up to smile at him. “Wanna fool around, or are you just a slut for cuddles?”

“mmm….” Sans tilts his skull down, graces his pelvis with a fond little smile. “all of the above.”

“You like this one?” You can tell his genitalia’s...doing something, since you can’t see through his pelvic inlet, but that’s about it.

Sans gives you a slow, happy socket-blink as he nods. “don’t think it came out for you before. i dunno what this shape’s called….kinda fussy, though.”

“Fussy?” You don’t think you’re heard him use that term for any of his other shapes.

“gotta do it a particular way. you interested?”

“I seems I am,” you whuffle into his neck, then pull away to let him shiver. “Are you going to teach me its fussy ways, senpai?”

“eheheheh…” His sockets are flat on the bottom, his grin sweet and sultry. “turns out class is in session. c’mere.”

You give him your hands, but instead of directing them to his genitalia, he wraps them around his back so you’re holding him. Wiggles up close, then lifts his chin to demand your face’s attention with his.

“yeah,” he rumbles sweetly as you comply. You cover his maxilla with hot little kisses as his hands find your ass, getting a nice grope in himself. “...mm. gotta get me nice n worked up. it only likes ta be touched after a while… and then only for a minute, k?”

“Okay,” you agree easily. Sounds like it’s both high and low maintenance, just like him. Cute.

Sans makes encouraging noises while you stroke his ribs and kiss his vertebrae. His hands roam all over, their hard, flexible smoothness getting _you_ worked up in return as he coaxes your leg back between his knees. He rubs the insides of his femurs on your thigh eagerly, but keeps his pelvis away from your body for the most part. You’re already caught up in his body’s thrumming mystery, loving and familiar, utterly inhuman.

You start fingering his spine, pushing and rubbing at the resistance in the spaces to make him sigh and hum. His magic gets agitated enough in the space between his ribcage and pelvis for you to feel it, and you keep petting and kissing until it starts to shed. He moans quietly when you mouth at his neck, savoring his strange spice on smooth bone. Sharing magic is an important part of sex for him, even if you don’t taste his feelings in it like a monster can. Just like he knows orgasms are an important part of sex for you, and loves to help you have them even when he can’t or doesn’t care to.

“I really love you,” you say after a while. Sans huffs and shudders responsively, clutching you close.

“yeah? i do somethin’ special?”

“Nope,” you growl softly down into his ribcage, then give his spicy jaw a nice, hot lick. “You’re just really fucking hot, and I love _touching_ you-,” you demonstrate, “-and _tasting_ you-” likewise, “-and I love you.”

“... _fuck_ ,” he whispers shakily, pressing his fingerpoints up and down your back until you get gooseflesh. “mmh...love you too. y...ya know, i usually need to touch m’self ta get this ready. you got a real talent for sweet talk....”

You don’t really, but it’s nice that he thinks so. This must be one of the shapes that want him to have specific emotions in order to cooperate. The ones that like closeness and together-feelings usually only come out on his own if he’s already touching his soul at the same time. Good to know you’ve built up some intuition.

Sans has been stroking your arm, and now slides down it to take your hand into his. “here...” he murmurs soulfully, sockets slipping closed as he brings your palm to the inside of his femur. He guides you to stroke it firmly up and down, shivers hard as heated breath gushes from his nasal cavity. He moves your hand to the other leg and does the same thing, and he lets out a soft moan as you put a flourish on it.

“How about both at once?”

He curses softly, opens his sockets. He’s breathing pretty hard, and his eyes are broad and loose. “yeah? you want to?”

You urge him onto his back, then get up and kneel between the legs he spreads eagerly for you. You peer at his pelvic outlet, but there’s not much to see. Just his lovely, silky shadow; maybe there’s an opening, or something that only emerges when it’s ready for the ‘minute’ he’d mentioned earlier. His bones are loose and shivery, not tense like when he wants to come. You already sussed out this probably doesn’t do that. But it apparently does _something_ , and you’re looking forward to finding out what it is.

Sans looks up at you hopefully, then makes a lovely little coo when you rub your palms firmly down the inside of both his femurs at once.

“god, that’s good.” His sockets close as you experiment with touches. “ohh, jus’ like that,” he encourages when you sync your movements. His pelvis shudders alone when you stroke down in towards it at the same time, and he twitches with a soft cry when you dart your thumbs out to caress where his femurs join his pelvis.

You love that he’s so sensitive there, love that _you_ get to know that he is. Love that you get to see him like this, moaning and shivering under your touch. You do it again to make him writhe, and you notice how wet you’re getting when you shift. You keep rubbing up and down his legs until his hips move in time with your stroking.

“i’m ready,” he says suddenly, takes your right hand and coaxes you down by the other shoulder. Eager, but not urgent. His sockets are open now, the broad white points inside tracing your face like a caress. “lemme show you...here...” You lean up on an elbow over him so you can watch his face right back, and he guides your hand to his pelvic outlet. He cups it over something hot and soft, then humps it while making short little gasps, squeezing you gently with his legs.

“ohh,” Sans says softly, “here it goes-” His hand quickly separates out two of your fingers, and he pushes the just the tips slightly inside his body with a voiceless _hah_ breath. It’s noticeably warmer than his genitalia usually is. He quivers inside and out, and something hot mushes against your fingers. Sans makes the same sound a few more times, gazing at you with adoring eyes as he guides your fingers to caress the part twitching against you.

Then his sockets go perfectly round.

“oo _oh_!” he blurts in a rushed exhale, eyes loose with awe as a deep, exquisitely _hot_ tingle floods against your fingers. “-is’s—hh, hh _ah_...”

Things feeling better than Sans expected isn’t all that uncommon, so you just follow his lead until he can make words again. He cups his other hand over the action with an astonished expression as he shivers and moves your fingers a few more times. It’s _really_ wet now, more than your fingers can absorb, for sure. There’s another hot tingle as he lets out a few shaky pants, then he surprises you by immediately taking your hand away and pulling it insistently up to his face. You shift quickly to allow it, and, um…

Yep, he’s sniffing it.

“Everything okay?”

His other hand is still down between his legs, cupping his junk. He doesn’t let your hand go either, and instead starts scraping your fingertips with the edge of his teeth.

“it pushed magic out,” he breathes in wonder and arousal as he tries to taste what’s on your fingers. “it pushes on its own, if, if ‘m ready…and, and i...”

Oh, okay. Wow. “Does that not usually happen?”

“no,” he moans, shivering as he does his best to taste himself again. His brow creases with tension, because it seems to not be going very well.

“sorry, jus’...” His magic’s so agitated all across his skull it’s practically glowing, and now he’s visibly squirming. He’s about as flustered as he gets. If you had to guess, this genitalia shape’s affecting him in a way he wasn’t expecting. They do that sometimes; make him want things or feel things he wouldn’t usually, or just make them stronger.

“What is it? You can always just ask.”

“will you taste me?” he says, eyes quivering as desire overrides his not-inconsiderable embarrassment. “p...please?”

Oh….whoa. You know quite intimately that Sans derives sexual pleasure from pushing magic into his mouth they way he would into his soul, since you’ve shared it while soul-merged before. This must be the same kind of thing, but...it just sort of went everywhere, since he wasn’t expecting it. Sans usually doesn’t care where his magic goes when it sheds, even when it’s for sex, but it seems this is different. It’s kind of obvious he wants you to partake, since he kind of…can’t, as it stands. Oh my.

You watch him carefully as you bring your fingers to your own lips, and he makes a soft, excited noise when you lick them. Hmm. Doesn’t have that supercharged sex taste when you’re not merged with him, but it’s still pretty nice. Still different from his shed magic, too. Rather than spicy, it’s...humming?

You smile into his yearning-soaked expression. “Yeah.”

He shudders hard as you make your way down his body. Sans uncovers his genitalia for you, but keeps his hand cupped to the side. The glistening opening in his pelvis is more visible now that it’s been penetrated. The wetness doesn’t look different although there’s more than usual; otherwise it’s just a soft, mouthlike entrance. The horizontal lips of it are parted damply in a cute little pout.

Sans’s sex feelings are different than yours more often than they’re similar, and he can’t always explain them. Despite that, you want to figure out how best to please him. You touch his downstairs mouth with your fingertips again; he bites off a whimper when you taste them. He said this shape doesn’t usually do this, and he still has his magic-soaked hand still held carefully away. It also seems to be mildly distressing him that it’s everywhere, instead of...a destination. You look up at his avid face, take a wild monster sex-feelings guess.

“Is it for _me_ , shortiepie? Special?”

His breath hitches, and...oh geez. His sockets spill over, and you stroke the outside of his leg soothingly as he hides them with his other hand.

“yeah,” he whispers.

“Then I want it,” you say simply. He lets his skull puff back into the pillow when you press your flat tongue to the outside, moans faintly when you slip the tip inside.

Huh. It really does taste different to just-you, in the sense that it’s kind of _not_ a taste. It makes you realize the spicy flavor of Sans’s shed magic is actually...movement. A movement that’s a taste, like sound is waves through the air that makes your eardrum move. Maybe they’re both forms of communication. The taste of the magic his body pushed out for you is like a frequency slowed down enough to where you can almost hear a tangible resonance as it wiggles away into the space between your tongue. Wow. Look at you, just chilling down here between his femurs, blowing your own mind.

He makes a muffled noise, and you look up to see he’s still got his face covered. You move your tongue around inside to see if he wants more stimulation here; he makes a ghost of that _hah_ noise, but otherwise seems done. He really did just want you to take his magic, and that’s it. He uncovers his sockets with a shy smile when you pull away, but his eyes nearly vibrate when you take his cupped hand.

“you-oh….” he sighs in wonder and satisfaction as you lick a trace of his magic from one of his fingers as well. “oh, oh babe...lemme...” He takes his hand back, and to your surprise he pulls you down and leans up over you instead. His face touches yours, nuzzling passionately as he presses his glossy bones against your belly and hips. “lemme do you,” he whispers, and you sign encouragement. He touches your mound… pauses to glance down at his magic-soaked hand, then meets your eyes sheepishly.

“that okay?” he asks, embarrassed again. That was an impressively rapid transition from forgetting it was there, to remembering, to realizing the idea of fucking you with his messy fingers is _seriously_ doing it for him. Your reach up and touch his face, cup it with your hands and study him for a minute. He’s having a nice time, but it seems like this is really intense for him in a different way than he’s used to.

He’s shy about you tasting him, which is odd considering he’s pushed magic right into your mouth more than once. For him that’s a fairly vanilla, pleasurable activity. It always seemed that where on his body the magic pushes out _from_ is actually kind of irrelevant, although he definitely prefers to use his hands. How he is now kind of reminds you of the times you touch his bones until he’s a sopping, shivering mess, but his genitalia doesn’t come out. Feeling every touch, present and talkative… oh. Maybe _that’s_ why he’s embarrassed. He’s not accustomed to being this physically aroused without a bunch of urgency bypassing his higher thought processes.

Alright, Sans being flustered about his junk’s newly discovered talent is officially adorable and sexy. You rub your thumbs under his sockets as you try to figure out how to best reassure him that you’re down with his recently acquired fluid kink.

“I’m down with your recently acquired fluid kink,” you inform him gently. “You can fingerbang me with it if you want.”

He huffs in amusement, even as he shudders with arousal. He graces you with a slow, soft socket-blink, and a big sigh seems to clear out most of his discomfort.

“lemme know, okay?” You inhale deeply as hot-tingly bones part your folds, and your slicknesses mingle. The deep wiggle reminds you of certain sex toys, or the tense bud of his thrumming genitalia at rest when he has sex with you just bones. It’s especially interesting on your clit, the wavering feeling almost vibration-like.

“It’s _nice_ ,” you breathe, then pull his face down so you can kiss the magic he forgot about off his teeth. He moans sweetly, and you present into his touch, do a little humpy motion so he’ll put his fingers inside. He does, and before long you’re moaning too.

“babe...” He pulls back, and you open your eyes to his desire-saturated expression. “think…i might wanna go again. c’n i rub it here when ‘m ready?”

“Yyye _ah_ h,” you grunt out the breath you’ve been holding, because you’re already close. That tingle’s really doing it for you, even if it’s mostly absorbed by now. “Make me come first.”

“fuck,” he says as you pull him on top of you, and he makes a pleased hum as you wrap your leg over his ilium. “you got it, darlin’...”

You moan again when he pushes deeper, lets you have his metacarpals for depth below his tickling-circling thumb on your clit. “that’s it, come for me...” He shifts a little, and you moan with renewed urgency. He does the thing where he folds his hand rapidly, hitting your g-spot with a thrusting motion. All that movement jogs free another tingle he’d apparently been saving up in his carpals somewhere, and your legs tighten and shake as wavy heat soaks into your clit.

“Fuck,” you gasp, “I can almost hear it...”

Sans makes a half-strangled coo, distracted enough that he doesn’t quite manage to create the flood he might have been hoping for. You don’t care, because coming around his slick bones feels just as good for you either way. His noise actually slots together a few key bits of info for you, when it comes to figuring out what this shape is, at least. He draws it out until you’re satisfied, but his withdrawal and position change is hasty enough to make you feel breathlessly smug. Sans’s vestigial eagerness to get you make-believe bird pregnant is unexpectedly charming, and much more of a turn on than you’d expect on paper.

Sans arranges himself in an odd posture with your leg up over his shoulder, almost squatting down over you. He bends down as far as he can, planting a hand until he finds his balance, then peers down adoringly at you. He’s panting, but his body’s still not tense despite his pleasure and anticipation. He touches his genitalia to yours, then gasps when he nudges at you.

“goes in a little,” he breathes shakily. “that okay?”

You don’t feel anything. “What did?”

“this guy.” A bone finger touches the side of your clit briefly. Oh, it went into _him_. He shudders hard all over when you give him a thumbs up.“almost feels like you got one too,” he manages, “i’m-” He makes another breathless coo, shifting to grasp your shoulder and leg as his genitalia pushes out magic right on yours. Hoo boy, that was quick.

He squeezes his legs in, hugs your thigh and rolls his forehead on your knee, looking down at the action as heat gushes into your quivering cleft. His _hah_ noises puff hotly between his teeth and out of his nasal aperture, along with “there you go,” and what might be “take it.” You’re not 100% on that one because his eyes go transparent and he just sort of melts down onto you in the middle of it.

“that felt _so good_ ,” he slurs into your neck after a minute or so of wiggly moaning. “oh...sh...shit….” You gasp sweetly as his fingers appear to rub your soaked lips, but make a short noise and twitch aside when he goes to slip them in. He contents himself with massaging the outside for now.

“I think it’s a cloaca shape,” you say after a few minutes, still stroking him through some shudders.

“r...really?” He huffs with gentle surprise. “those usually go th’other way, though.”

“Not a...reptile kind. The thing with your legs, and the little part that mushes… I think it’s a bird…bird-monster kind.” Yeah okay, so you did some research. It’s not your fault most of the information about possible genitalia you have access to is about animals as opposed to monsters.

“huh...” Sans wobbles off you and leans up, does his best to look down between his legs. Touches it with his fingertips and hums. “eggs come outta here?”

“Oh, no,” you correct gently. “Not all birds can lay eggs. You-”

“they can’t?”

“No,” you say again, giggling and watching him toy curiously with his little opening. He’s starting to look like he might want to go again, his other hand absently stimulating his femurs some more. You try to think how to put it, since phrases like “semen has sperm in it” just sort of slide off his mind without incorporating into his understanding of other concepts. (Which… makes his magic-pushing-junk thing stranger than you considered. You’re used to the idea of ejaculate fluid, but you have no clue why a _monster’s_ junk would dispense reproductive substances.)

“Birds mash their cloacas together, and usually one can make stuff that the egg laying birds take and put in a little pocket. Later they can use it so the eggs hatch baby birds if they want to.”

The crooked space between Sans’s teeth hangs open. “thass fuckin’ weird,” he says, grunting softly as his own fingers rasp along his leg.

“Do you want to go again, baby?” you ask, smiling.

“yeah,” he says immediately, then holds out his arms. You help him lie down and get on top, kissing all over his bones while he squeezes you with his legs, moaning and murmuring. “stars…it’s so good when it comes _out_ like that...” Sans turns his head so you can suck on his spicy neckbones, kneading your ass with both hands to urge you on. “i wanna give it to you _so much_ ,” he breathes, and you pull back to let him shiver.

“Do you want me to use my mouth?” You say provocatively against his vertebrae.

“oh fuck,” he whispers. “oh...please...”

“No need to beg...” you say with playful aloofness, your hand caressing his hard white thigh insistently. “Do you want to do it to me?”

“huh?”

“Do it to me,” you repeat, lying down on his body and pressing in, letting him shiver under your weight to increase the pressure between his bones. He groans fervently, delighted. “Like you did last time, but on my mouth.”

“oh my god, _yeah_ ,” he gushes emphatically, already wriggling out from under you. “’m r….ready...” You roll off to lie down, and he straddles you. He ends up with his forearm across the top of the headboard, balancing his forehead on it and looking down at you kissing the insides of his femurs. He reaches out hesitantly, then pets your hair and cheek when you dart him a sultry look.

“It doesn’t happen until you touch in there?” you ask, then lick a stripe across his thighbone to make him squeak.

He shakes his head, then pauses and gets round-sockets again. He’s looking at his fingers hungrily.

“’m gonna do it my mouth at th’same time,” he says shakily, then rasps them over his own ribs, lingers before bringing them up to his teeth. He moans softly as you lick the magic that holds his femur to his pelvis, then parts his teeth and slips the tip of his pinky phalanx in the corner of his mouth. You use the dense knobs of his femurs to guide him down until your tongue touches his heated genitalia, moaning into the shed magic you can taste now, too. A quicker resonance to its familiar, numbing spice, and it's still all him. You tongue at his junk; this shape doesn’t like too much movement...but then you get the bright idea to seal your lips against him and suck a little.

“ohhh,” he creaks, sockets narrowing nearly shut. “o-oh, _hah_ , yeah...do that...” You part his opening with your tongue, flickering in until something nudges against it. You push your tongue at it firmly, and his breathy _hah_ sounds tighten closer to sobs as a new wetness joins his lovely taste. Ahhh, that’s what those short little gasps remind you of. His hitching breaths when he’s about to push magic, in you or in himself. This sound’s even closer to it, because right now he’s about to do both. His eye lights tremble as you suck again, and his sockets spill over as they broaden to transparency.

His pelvis barely moves, but he lets out a surprised, breathy moan as he suddenly fills your mouth. You hum into him with the pleasure and the heat of it, and because it’s sexy to know he’s tasting it, too. _Sharing_ it. There’s enough that you have a choice to make; his broken voice sobs your name as you pump your chin against him and swallow him down.

Sans pulls his finger out of his mouth with a little hiccup, lifts off your mouth but only so he can shuffle down your body. You can feel the heat of his pelvis against your lower belly, and he immediately presses his teeth to your lips and nudges until you feel heat there, too. Good to know it tingles all the way down, and it’s a nice feeling, too. Kind of warm and happy.

“babe...” he whispers faintly, cups your face in his hands, “…oh, that….that was…” He shivers and moans, presses his teeth again. “didja like it?” he breathes, and eventually remembers you can’t answer until he takes his teeth off your mouth.

“Yep,” you say hoarsely, then pull him back down. You wrap your arms and legs around him, still caught up in the experience. When his femur brushes up your inner thigh, you moan and arch towards it.

“you wanna go again?”

Turns out you do, and he stays where he is to snake a hand down between your legs. He slides inside and at your urging, penetrates you with everything he’s got. Sans’s genitalia has a mind of its own, but everything about _this_ : your limbs wrapped around the heaving ivory of his body; the push and pull of his hard fingers in you like an inevitable tide; the low, sweet rumble of his voice making love-shaped promises just for your ears…

It’s a welter of sensory information that your body infallibly recognizes as _sex_. Always him, always this. Always right here for you just like the first time he made you come, just like what’s becoming the next time. You can already feel the tingle of his shed as he fucks you, and you wonder if he might want to push magic in this way in his current mood. You don’t say anything since you’re understandably distracted; you leave it to him to huskily murmur his _there you go_ es as you tip over the edge, shuddering and crying out. Sans is different every time; sex with him is always beautifully, reliably consistent when it comes to getting you off.

Sans lies down on top of you once you’re satisfied to be held and caressed, maybe praised once you catch your breath. You do, and then you say the other thing you thought while he’s still close and intimate.

“I kind of thought you were going to.” Sans usually pushes magic with his fingers, after all, and this morning has been a zone unto itself. A nice zone, but yeah. “For a second.”

“thought about it,” Sans whispers into your neck, and you feel his agitated magic bloom into a tingle against your skin. “think, uh. that’s too kinky fer me. r...right now.”

“That’s okay,” you say instead of teasing him, since he’s embarrassed enough to shed over it. His shoulder’s moving a little, so you add, “You want another turn?”

“mm,” Sans hums, sounding gently...disappointed? He leans up to look at you, expression matching his tone. “’s goin’ away now, i guess.”

“It’s done, but you’re not?” You grin at Sans plying at his junk; there’s a brief flicker of hope in his expression, but then he sighs and smiles sheepishly.

“eh. i’ll take the hint.” He gives you a little wink, finally takes his fingers away and pats your hip instead. “but yeah, i could probably do that all day.” He admits it easily enough, for all he was flustered while it was happening. He keels over and off to the side before cuddling right back up against you, plopping his skull on your shoulder with an adorable inward nuzzle.

“Mild?” That’s one of his ways of describing something that isn’t like a human orgasm.

Sans hums thoughtfully. “more intense than jus’ mild, i think. not...sharp, though.” He peeks up at you, and a loving smile melts over his features like the sun coming out. He sighs with profound satisfaction. “it’s a _lot_ better sharing it with you,” he says passionately. The “with you” makes you blush. “’m surprised you went with it, if ‘m honest. i was actin’ kinda weird.” His gaze slides to the side, but he giggles softly.

“I think it felt weirder to you than it seemed to me. Maybe because you thought you knew what it did, but then it did something else, or...more.” You grin lasciviously. “That last round was definitely _more_.”

“might be right. you liked it, huh?”

“Yeah. Out of curiosity...what would you have done if I hadn’t wanted to?”

Sans’s eyes flicker at you softly. “uh. probably woulda calmed down n used one a the napkins from the case?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“jus’ cause i want something doesn’t mean i need it,” he reminds you. “some shapes like stuff, but that doesn’t mean _i_ do,” he continues unexpectedly. “huh. maybe thass it. even though i really wanted to do all that, an’ it felt...” he exhales, impressed, “... _real_ good, it wasn’t how some of em are. like it...takes over, like i _have_ to do it a certain way. i don’t, though. jus’ feels like that sometimes.” He hums some more, scratching the front of his ribcage like a little bone t-rex. “gotta be in the mood for those.” He smiles like a little cat that got away with something. It’s so cute it makes your heart twinge.

“You mean, like, if you were in the mood for sex at all, you’d like this one?”

“probably wouldn’t kick it outta bed,” he chuckles.

“It really didn’t bother you, huh?”

“nope,” Sans says easily. “s’like...that’s somethin’ i already do, just...works a lil different. Almost like….a lil button i can push to make it happen, instead of just...making it happen the usual way?”

“That makes sense. Do you think...” You try and figure out how to phrase it, but he gets the gist anyhow.

“remember that thing from when we met the pirates?”

“Yeah.” The recollection’s a fond one. A long, mobile tentacle thing along with a narrow opening to the side. It had been nice to lick and gently finger the opening; Sans had put the tendril part inside you for a while, used his fingers to help you come. He’d held you close and done it from behind which had been unusual too. You still remember how hot his breath had been as he’d wept and whispered into your neck and ear, and how it had felt inside. Very fun, very wiggly.

Sans looks aside bashfully. “i think that can push magic, too. i, uh. started to feel something after we’d been going at it a while. hot feeling? like i wanted to give you something... but i couldn’t think of _what_ , cause it was already in there. maybe it was that? and i, uh...” He gets a little more flustered, but says it anyhow. “that shows up on my own, too. i like it cause i can do myself with it.”

“You…?”

“like...” He makes an impressive gesture, curling his fingers in a circle except the index, then inserting his forefinger into the hole.

“it fits right in there,” he giggles, looking awfully iridescent. “it, uh. would probably feel real good if that happened while i was inside.”

“Ohhhh. Because you could taste it with that, same as your mouth.”

Sans nods. “well. mouth’s a little more sensitive. but yeah.”

“I think it might be hotter watching you do that than having you do me,” you say, smiling wickedly.

Sans glances away, face flushed iridescent chin to forehead. “mm….think i could keep you entertained while i did it.” When he looks back at you, his grin’s full of promise, and he shivers slightly. You cuddle for a bit and consider just going back to sleep, but then something else occurs to you.

“Do other monsters’ genitalia push magic out?” you ask instead of beating around the bush.

Sans looks uncomfortable...and conflicted.

“it’s private,” he says eventually, looking carefully at the wall. Only two words, but an entire paragraph’s worth of puzzles and implications in them. Another monster would have pretended you didn’t say anything. By his standards, Sans directly answered your question. If at least some other monsters’ genitalia didn’t do what his just did, he would have just said no.

Saying anything more than what he did is what’s private.

“Okay,” you say, even though you really want to know. You’ll just have to think about it for a while, maybe you can figure it out that way. “It...really doesn’t bother you, huh?”

He looks back at you in surprise that softens quickly. “no. it’s...” he sighs. “not like…i have to be _ready_ for it to happen. not like...”

Other stuff that happens no matter what he wants. The things his body does without his permission.

“Make me eggs,” you say abruptly, satisfied when you see his eyes flicker. No moping today!

“huh?”

“Make. Me. _Eggs_. You Wakey-Bakey’d me, so now you have to make me eggs for real.”

Sans pokes you in the forehead and makes a dry skeleton fart noise.

“you’re eggs.”

“That’s not how magic works,” you inform him archly. “Cook eggs and feed them to me.”

Sans sighs, giggles, presses his teeth to your head and makes a startling-loud kissy noise.

“ok. since ya didn’t ask and all.”

Whatever gets the job done. You both pull on shorts and head downstairs. You lie your head down on folded arms, watching him saunter all sleepy and broad-hipped around the kitchen to meet your request. Bossing him around is fun, especially since he likes it so much. He makes a complete mess of the kitchen, but it’s still not as bad as the one Papyrus makes every single time he cooks. Sans leaves survivors most of the time.

Sans separates his metacarpals carefully so he can carry two bowls in one hand; the sort of thing he waited a while to do around you since it apparently freaks some humans out. It makes his hand look a little spidery sometimes, sure, but it’s not gross or anything. It’s also part of why he’s so good at handjobs. He gives you the smug look he gets when he can tell you’re thinking sexy stuff about him, sets the tanker-sized bottle of ketchup on the table cattycorner to you both and plops his clackity ass down into the chair.

“The pact is sealed,” you announce, pulling your bowl toward you. He wins quickest draw once again, snatching up the ketchup and blorting a gallon or so into his own bowl before offering it to you with exaggerated gallantry.

“Where do monster eggs come from?” you ask, then shovel in your first bite once your eggs are sufficiently soupy.

Sans is already laughing.

“What?”

“you tryin’ ta figure out ‘f someone has to get-”

“ _Don’t_ you--!”

“...laaaaid?” he drawls unflappably.

You show off how much better your fart noises are than his. It’s because they’re wetter. You give it enough oomph that he narrows his sockets against the spray, then just shakes his skull fondly.

“s’jus… you got at least three actual monster chefs that you’re around all the time, and for some reason _i’m_ the one you always ask about this stuff,” he chortles, them slides his spoon between the narrow gap between his upper and lower teeth.

You scowl and talk with your mouth full. “Papyrus never stops talking long enough for me to ask him questions, and Grillby is why I know what half the crap at the monster grocery is in the first place.” Sans arches an orbital at you. “And Toriel’s kind of...intimidating sometimes.”

“heh.” Sans spoons up some more eggs, slides the spoon laboriously into the gap in his teeth a few more times before he starts to look bored. He often gives up on eating once he’s halfway done. His partially fused mandible can make eating into a chore for him, and a slightly painful one sometimes, too.

Then something else occurs to you. “can you eat with your junk instead?”

“ _what_??” Sans quacks out a weird giggle. “n...no, darlin’. i can’t eat with it. love you, though.”

“Love you too,” you reply, accepting his judgement of your ridiculous ideas with aplomb. “But...you said your genitalia is a receptive spot…magic goes _in_ there, right? You absorb it.”

Sans frowns. “yeah?”

“So...where does it go?”

“in me,” he says slowly.

“Differently than eating it.”

“yeah,” he repeats.

“So...what’s the difference?”

“well. in one case, i’m eating it,” he replies earnestly. “and in the other, i’m not.”

You kind of deserved that one.

“What's it _called_ , though?”

“tasting it.”

“Okay, so...when I’m doing you, and you shed magic. You taste your own, right? It goes back...in you?”

“yeah, part of it.”

“The rest of it?”

“goes in you, or…wherever. on the bed?”

“Why?”

Sans has his ‘this is hilarious’ expression back, and you should know what’s coming by the way he seems to mildly vibrate.

“...gravity?”

Your spoonful of soupy eggs hits him right in the nasal cavity.


	5. like breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes….things that are expensive….are pretty nice, actually.
> 
> [Psychedelic Furs - Love My Way](https://youtu.be/LGD9i718kBU)

“hey.”

You look away from your viewer, blink and shift until you can properly focus on Sans. He’s sitting on the edge of his mattress with your shoulders between his knees. You’re on the floor looking at random after-work-wind-down crap on your viewer, crosslegged in the middle of a big pluffy nest consisting of everything that was on his bed before he leg-paddled it on the floor for your convenience, while Sans plays with/takes care of your hair. He tends to space out on it; you’d been expecting him to do what he usually does, which is eventually melt back onto the bed and fall asleep.

“wanna go have a coffee with me?”

You stare. “What?”

“you know,” he grins. “‘s that brown liquid stuff your sister drinks all the time.”

You’re immediately dubious. The only places Sans suggests going unprompted are home, Grillby’s, and your stargazing spot.

“At…Muffet’s?”

Sans’s impish grin flattens a bit.

“...you really that surprised?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but dismiss your viewer with an indulgent smile.

“Did Alphys tell you that you need to take me out more?”

The white points in his sockets wriggle briefly before immediately giving up. “yeah.”

You grin and shake your head. “I’m happy with how we are, Sans. You don’t have to prove anything.”

He takes in a breath, holds it as his brow creases. Lets it out before speaking.

“i know. but what she said got me thinking, how a lotta times we don’t do stuff jus’ me and you.”

“I think the bed would beg to differ.”

“well, ‘m not asking the bed out to coffee, so it c’n keeps its opinion to itself.” He snickers, but adds, “s’okay if you’re not up for it right now.”

You look at the closet and its frozen waterfall of endless random objects and trash, letting your thoughts coalesce at their own pace.

“I only want to do things if you want to do them. Not because you think you’re supposed to or something.”

“got me thinking,” Sans repeats softly. You try and turn around, but he wiggles until he slips down between the mattress and your body, then hugs you from behind. He’s hidden behind your back now, the sneaky imp. He rubs your shoulder with his forehead, pets your leg with his hard, tepid hand. It’s especially nice because you don’t have any pants on. Work done, pants off, Sans all up in your human business. Good times.

“i like how you take me places. sh...show me off. took me bowling that time...”

You snort at the memory.

“That was like. Years ago.”

“yeah,” he agrees happily. “got me thinking how i liked that time we went ta muffet’s. she got herself all worked up over you, an’...it was...” Sans shivers as his hands slide up your shirt, fingertips doing ticklish-broad circles across your belly, ghosting up and down your midline. Well now. “i like it when people see how sexy you are,” he murmurs, massaging at your hips. Your eyebrows lift on their own.

“Rrrrr _eally_.”

“mmhm. and i liked talking with you, ways we don’t always. liked how it made me feel… like ‘m _lucky_ , even though i already know.”

“Lucky?” you prompt unwisely, kind of liking where this is going.

“lucky i get to be with you,” he says, and yeah. It makes your face even hotter. “lucky i get to see how you are when you look at your after-work crap, gettin’ all _relaxed_ ,” he rumbles close to your ear. “lucky you let me do this,” and your throat-clearing noise at the _this_ he’s doing might not be entirely as interrupt-y as you intended it to be.

“The path you tread leads to mattress, not Muffet’s,” you point out unsteadily.

“up to you,” he nuzzles into the back of your neck. Then he does the little fingertip stroke at your thigh crease, the one that drives you crazy every time.

“Okay, _that’s_ not fair!”

“never said it was,” he chuckles, warmly enough to make you shiver. Or maybe that’s because his hands stole some warmth from your belly and is now whisking their temeprature-bounty on the cooler skin of your upper arms. With his arms crisscrossed, from inside your shirt. It’s like he’s a fucking octopus or something. You…make an attempt to think about it logically. Sadly, it works. Thing is, you can always play peek-a-bone later. Muffet’s closes.

“buy me coffee, you horny little goblin,” you announce breathlessly.

He stills.

“never said i was gonna buy it,” he protests.

“You’re going to buy it.”

His breath gusts out between your shoulderblades with moderately convincing grief. “ya drive a hard bargain, darlin’.”

“You love it,” you announce confidently.

“yeah,” he agrees, and gives you a big, bony hug before slithering his arms free and getting up with a dramatic groan. He gathers the cloth at the front of his shorts and presses it to his pubis with the heel of his hand. Sans grins shamelessly as he attempts to guide whatever’s happening there back to whence it came, and offers you a hand up like a true gentleskeleton.

“I weigh like twice what you do,” you tease flatly.

“yeah, n i’m stronger than i look,” he rebuts, and you let him haul you gently to your feet. You stand in front of him and shuffle-step a little closer, watch his eye lights change texture as you cup his skull between your hands. You trace his features gently with the tip of your nose, and a gratifying huff blows chalky-sweet breath against your face. You also begin to question the purpose of his continued hand movements.

“You know, rubbing it usually makes it worse for humans,” you remark.

Sans grunts, helping himself to a handful of your butt. “well. i gotta admit it’s not exactly making it smaller, but, uh. i don’t really care cause i got a long sweater on.” You rest your forehead against his, giggling. Then you step back, look around for your carelessly discarded pants among the trash heap Sans calls a bedroom. You pluck them off the floor and sit on the bed to put them on, then frown up at Sans. His hands are back in his pockets now, joined at the front since he apparently zipped his hoodie up.

“Um. Can’t monsters….smell it? If you go out like that?”

He turns his skull to keep looking at you as he walks to a slipper and slides it on his foot. “yeah?” He shuffles across the room to the next one and repeats the process.

“Oh.”

He smiles. “’s a lil embarrassing sometimes, but uh. ‘m gettin’ used to it.” A hand reemerges to extend itself to you, but he takes it and just stands there for a minute, thinking. “i know i hide a lotta things most monsters wouldn't bother,” Sans allows. “but no one’s gonna say anything about it to me.”

You save that for unpacking later. “Alphys told me a long time ago some monsters get teased.”

“that’s only if i talk about it a certain way.” His face goes hard for a second. “and they shouldn’t.” He squeezes your hand. “ready?”

“Yep.”

He embraces you; you close your eyes and feel that little lurch. When you open them, you’re hugging Sans in that same little doorway across the street from Muffet’s. Which you belatedly remember is actually named “The Tuffet” when you see the sign, but no one actually calls it that.

This time there are other customers, and you wait behind a group of three monsters before you can make your order.

“Hello, ~dearie~!” Muffet’s teeth are as sharp as you remember. “So lovely to see you again. And I see you’ve brought some luggage.” She’s talking to you; she’s talking _about_ Sans.

“Awww, he’s not heavy. He’s my wallet,” you prompt, and Sans blushes even as he gives Muffet his cheekiest grin. He also sets a pile of G on the counter.

“how’s it hangin’, muffs?”

“By a thread,” she quips, and Sans’s laugh is unexpectedly hearty. Ahh. Because spiders. And also her willingness to tolerate Sans’s shenanigans. You give your orders, then go find a table. Sans pulls out your chair for you which is weird, but you decide to embrace whatever this mood of his is and sit with aplomb.

“Does Muffet just not like you because you’re smarmy and cheap?”

“petty much,” he snarks, and then you both make polite-face as she returns unexpectedly quickly with your order.

“Wow, the service here’s the fastest thing on eight legs,” you grin up at her boldly, and her tinkly little laugh adds its ambience to her remarkably pleasant, if spider-filled, cafe. Even if it does have sturdy metal rings bolted into the edges of a few tables and two or three of the light fixtures.

“We always strive to live up to the standards of our ~clientele~. Or down to them, as it suits,” she adds, slicing a disdainful look at Sans before leggily (and armily) sauntering off to chat up some of her other customers. You notice Sans’s shiver this time, maybe because you know him a little better.

His delicate distal phalanges brush the cup as if he’s testing the temperature, and then you squint at them as he idly toys with the cup handle. He lets you reach out and take them into your fingers, grinning as you examine his bones in the relatively bright, cheery lighting.

“Did you fall asleep in the tub again?”

“heh.” He looks pleased with himself. “yeah.”

They’re _really_ green. “How long were you in there?”

“dunno. while, i guess.”

“Did you have to drain your skull afterwards?” You grin as he nods, letting your hand rest on the table still holding his. “Where do you even get that stuff from?”

He flushes lightly, but his brow creases. “huh. thought you knew...paps makes our soap and stuff. you said you like the little skull ones, remember?”

“Oh!” You do, and you’re always using Papyrus’s bathroom partly because of them, and because his bathroom's just nicer than yours. It has _ruffles_. “Yeah, they’re really cute. It’s like they start out as him, then turn into you the more you use them. After a while they’re just a little disc thingie.” He giggles at that. “I just thought they were leftover from some kind of soapmaking hobby spree thing like he gets on, but…you go through a metric fuckton of the green stuff.” And he does, but there’s always...more. “When does he usually make it? He’s kinda got a full schedule.”

“well, i guess it’s been a while since he made any, but we got plenty still.”

You frown at that. “When was the last time he made soap?”

“mm. bout nine and change years ago?”

“And there’s still plenty?”

“mmhmm. got it in the coolshed.”

Your lips part. “Wait. Is _that_ what’s behind the big tarp that covers the whole back?”

“think so, yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

“heh heh….yeah. when papyrus makes something, it _stays_ made for a while if it knows what’s good for it.” Sans looks even more pleased, and now he’s touching the saucer with his unheld hand as he talks about his brother’s coolness some more. But he watches his fingers, like he’s….admiring them.

And that’s when a few things rather suddenly coalesce in your mind. Papyrus regularly makes masterpiece-worthy paint pigments, and he has Alphys’s help. There’s no way he’d make a soap that stained bones by _accident_. Every bathroom Sans bathes in has literal gallons of Sans’s special soaking soap lined up in the cupboards. His fingers, especially the tips, are more porous than most of his bones from heavy use. And the shade is an approximation of cyan and yellow at once, the color of his magic when it comes to the surface. You noticed the light sea foam green tint when he was toying with the handle of his cup, because Sans _wanted_ you to notice it.

The tinting effect of the bubble bath on Sans’s bones is intentional.

It draws attention….to his hands.

The bubble bath is a _cosmetic_.

“you ok?”

You look back up at Sans abruptly. He can tell when you’re not listening. “Sorry, I just kind of-” inspiration strikes you, “- was noticing how pretty your distals are,” you try, and wow. Bullseye. Sans giggles faintly and rubs his fingers under his chin, lets one socket close while the color the tint enhances rolls across his face becomingly.

“oh, _these_ ol’ things? gotta hand it to you, i never fingered you for one ta ogle in public.”

“I think my downstairs business has a different definition of never,” you shoot back, and win the light, sincere chuckle you love.

His mirth trails off into a fond, interested smile. “been meaning to ask. how’s that folder coming along? the one i was supposed to look over a while back,” he clarifies quickly. “the not-exactly-work stuff.”

You blink.

“You think I should have someone else look it over instead of you,” you blurt.

He makes a finger-gun, does a little double click at you. Winks.

You blow a sour raspberry at him.

“….thing is. _i’m_ not ‘monsters’,” he says with a wry smile. “i’m _sans_. and yeah, it’s easier to ask me about this stuff cause ‘m always around, but i think you need to...” He glances to the side, watching two Dogs that came in order three times what you and Sans did. The pile of G on the counter is somewhat exorbitant. “...diversify your, uh. audience.”

“Well, I’m not really at the stage yet? I’m working on something to do with communication between humans and monsters.”

“thought it might. i, uh. read some of your papers these past few years. just wondering….what this one’s for,” he prompts politely.

“It’s hard to explain,” you explain. “But there are all these viewbooks and book-books and infosheets and textmarks and dossiers….but it’s like, they’re all things _humans_ think are important to know about monsters. But it’s not what _monsters_ would want humans to know about them? Or, no, not that.”

You drink some coffee and Sans watches you do it, expression mild and interested. Patient. The coffee’s really good here, almost as good as what Sans makes at his place when he can be nagged or bribed into finding the motivation.

“It’s like none of the information available understands the kind of things monsters think are important. Doesn’t understand how monsters _conceptualize_ things. But it should, and it should _use_ that to explain _other things_ to humans in a way humans can understand easily.”

“and see, that makes sense to me when you say it.” He shrugs. “but i can’t say th’same for doggo.”

You suddenly see his point.

“Okay, you’re right. I’ll have….Toriel look at it.”

“not a bad start.”

“I’m sort of surprised you’re that interested in it,” you say, then spend a groan-y and hedonistic minute utterly absorbed in wolfing down your spider donut. “I kind of want another one. Buy me another one,” you preempt the second he starts to do his sadsack socket-shape, then get up to go use the bathroom.

You have your own toilet paper with you as usual, because monsters tend to forget about that part unless they’re Grillby, or they put it on the other side of the room or something. You have some sanitizing hand cloths with you as well. Grillby’s human bathroom has both toilet paper and a sink, as well as a noticeable lack of a monster in some kind of sensory deprivation suit attached spread-eagle and upside-down with silvery thread stuff to the far wall, occasionally sighing happily. And you’re certainly happy _for_ them, but the more time you spend in monster facilities, the more you feel like Grillby’s bragging is justified.

When you return, there’s two more of Muffet’s delectable dusty-cinnamon-butter flavored pastries on another fancy little plate. That was quick, considering a few more people have arrived in your absence. And there’s Sans looking up when the door opens, all sleepy-delighted to hear more about your not-exactly-work project, his green-tinted, eldritch little fingerbones greeting you by making the donuts mime sex acts.

Okay, yeah. You could get used to this.

“I guess it’s kind of cliched,” you murmur self-deprecatingly as you watch him pick off some bits of the donuts and actually eat them. It’s like those fairy fingers are moths slowly eroding a donut shaped sweater. “Nerdy human falls madly in love with monster, decides to write book. Very romance. Much Hallmark Movie. Wow.”

“nah,” he disagrees mildly. “you would have done something like it anyhow.”

You lip twitches into a half smile. “What do you mean?”

“you were already doing research about it when we met.” He looks to the side; the two dogs have been bickering, and now they’re getting a little heated about it. There’s yipping that may evolve into nipping. You watch him note the conflict and file it away to whatever part of his mind is kind of always doing that. Muffet goes over to distract them; Sans looks back at you and continues.

“you already had a bunch of notes and diagrams and stuff from _before_ we met.” He shrugs. “hell, you even read _my_ papers before you knew me, even if you didn’t know i wrote em. you had the ideas...now you just have more facts, i guess.” You could probably argue a little. But it makes you feel good to know he thinks all that, so you let it be and return the sentiment instead.

“I don’t only ask you stuff just because we’re in a relationship, and you’re usually the closest monster. You know everyone, and you have a way of explaining what’s going on that I can understand.” Judging by the opacity of his eye lights, he didn’t know that. “I’m-Sans-not-’monsters’ goes _both_ ways. You’re a remarkably well-informed individual. I don’t just ask you because you’re my….”

Oh yeah. Another thing you wanted to talk about with him, and you never remember to bring up.

“What is our relationship? How do _you_ think of it, I mean?”

“me and you, s’like...me n tori. that’s how i think of it, i guess.”

He’s said that a time or two before. And that really is how he tends to describe concepts, as _relative_ to other things. Like it’s all this big web of everything at once, and he’s just moving around the point of focus to make comparisons. Everything at once from a slightly different _angle_ , which you suppose makes sense considering the whole continuum thing, and the way it informs monsters’ worldviews and conceptualizations. Affects the way they think. (You make a mental note of that for your not-exactly-work project, too.)

But you’re made of discrete particles, and you don’t much know what their relationship was actually _like_.

“You don’t really talk about Toriel, though,” you say quietly. “How it was with her.”

His hands just lie there on the table like dead fish. He doesn’t hide them.

“still don’t know how i feel about all of it,” he rasps softly.

“It was ten years ago.”

“yeah,” he whispers, and you realize that...maybe for him, it doesn’t feel like that long. “i shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“okay,” he says. “but….” he frowns thoughtfully. “you can ask me about it. i don’t want you to think...that you can’t. Or like….s’jus’ that i don’t feel like it right now.” His face changes, and he looks back up at you like he just figured something out. And you can kind of feel that too, like a tiny light glowing somewhere hidden.

“but monsters don’t talk about a lot of things they should.” Sans’s admission lifts your eyebrows yet again. “yeah. that’s been something i’ve been thinking about for a long time. lot longer than…” He exhales in bitter amusement as he trails off. “a real long time.”

“It makes you angry?”

“no,” he lies calmly. There’s a kernel of fierce heat in that tiny light. “a lot of...stuff. with _me_. it’s harder to deal with because we don’t have words for it. names for how we feel. stuff that….bodies do.” His fixed grin twitches into a less-flattened smile. “that’s something me and al talk about, how it makes what we do a lot harder since we got up here.”

He means the surface. “I know. You two still forget I’m there sometimes.”

His smile warms. “...nah. not so much. more like it doesn’t….” He pauses, switches gears. “it _matters_ that you’re there,” he says carefully, “it’s just okay for you to know what we say. always was, really.”

“Oh.” You clear your throat, obscurely flattered for no good reason.

“monsters can’t explain how we are to humans, because we don’t talk about it to each other,” he tries, and you’re getting on the same page now. “it’s why i think you should do the thing you’re working on.’m excited about it.”

You gape at him. He tilts his skull at you, eyes changing texture again.

“i think what you do is important.” His hand touches yours on the table. “it can help a lot of people talk about stuff they need to talk about. it helps me.”

“Oh,” you say faintly.

“that thing you said about ‘what monsters think is important’.”

You manage you look back up at him. He’s trying to say something important now, and he doesn’t know how.

“me and you, it’s like _that_. but _me_ and _you_.”

You gaze into earnest stars surrounded by eternal night; Sans’s eyes are just as lovely in any light.

“I think you mean we have the same values,” you say slowly, petting his hand on the table to help you think. “We get along because we have the same values and ideals, but we’re not the kind of people who just keep them as passive ideas. They’re our goals, too, and we have similar ideas about what needs to happen to reflect those ideals. We just... _do_ it more than we say it, maybe.”

He nods fervently, his twin stars shining a little brighter without actually giving off any light. Just becoming more visible, more _present_ as his interest sharpens. Your amygdala clears its throat at you, because apparently it’s also very sexy.

“and i _know_ all those words,” Sans says, leaning forward just a hair. “but they mean something else when _you_ say em. you put em together so they mean something i _feel_ , but i can’t explain. like...a new box to put ideas in. and we need that.” He means monsters. “but it’s hard, because everything was the same for...” He trails off into an exhale, shifting a bit. “if everyone can agree on new idea boxes, they can build something that helps people say what they _need_ to say. and more people could understand why they _should_.”

“We want everyone to get along,” you say wonderingly, realizing it’s true as you say it. “And when they don’t, we want to help them talk about why. Figure out what they want to do about it.” Because that’s what Sans does. Makes sure everything’s on the up and up. Checks in with people. Makes sure they have what they need. Provides those things himself in a few cases, but mostly….just lets Toriel or Asgore know what needs to go where. He ‘keeps an eye’ out. He mediates when it’s possible, and when it’s not….he _judges_.

“most monsters think it’s enough just to know,” Sans says softly. “maybe it used to be, but now it’s different. maybe people think they know, when they _don’t_. think that makes it harder than it needs to be for everyone ta get where they’re going.”

“That’s what you do, huh?” You feel soft all over. “Get people where they want to go?”

“heh.” He looks at the table, flips his fingers over so you’re holding hands now. “toldja. ‘m _lucky_.” He diddles your cuticles with his thumb distal.

“ _I’m_ lucky.” Sans looks back up at your words, flushed and surprised. “For a lot of people, it’s enough to have similar interests, to like the same music or stories or something. It’s even better when people like to _do_ the same things, because that’s what makes things last, whether you’re in love or best friends. But the best is when you share the same...I don’t know. Ideals, but the kind that are life-shaped.” He tilts his skull curiously.

“I founds someone who has all three, and he loves me back,” you explain gently.

He needs a minute then, and you consume the remainder of the fairyfinger-moth-eaten donuts while he regains his composure.

Then you make him pay for more coffee, because you’re not done having a good time yet.

“you haven’t stayed over at Grillby’s for a while,” you ask eventually. Apparently Sans-dates are good for asking questions you think about asking but never manage to get around to. Who knew. “Is there any reason or...something?” If there’s a conflict, it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Sans would bring up on his own, that’s for sure.

“he’s just not in the mood,” Sans informs you, watching you carefully. Whatever he sees on your face makes him frown slightly.

“think you got the wrong idea. grillbz doesn’t jus’ sit around waiting to play bone flute on my lazy coccyx all the time. he already has a lot goin’ on, and he wants to do his thing, you know? cooking and brewing, taking care a lola. being out there and talkin’ with everyone,” Sans grins so fondly you feel a little pang of sweetness in your heart, “rufflin’ up redbird and simmering down all that Dog gossip. telling everyone who stands still long enough all about his human toilet. he worries about his kids too much, he’s always got em on the phone til they get annoyed with ‘im.” He grins when he sees your surprise. “yeah, he jus’ slips in the back, even goes out front sometimes. he’s real smooth about it. mos’ people don’t notice how much he ducks out.”

You think about the times you go to Grillby’s without Sans. It is pretty different, and he _is_ kind of always busy. Always talking to someone and cleaning stuff, or in the back doing prep, checking the stills, or making some of the other stuff only he can make. He makes _time_ when Sans shows up; and yeah, sometimes he even chases everyone out so they can have some uninterrupted private time. Other times, you go there and find Sans under the table with Lola, because he’s not doing great and Grillby….is busy. Huh.

“You-and-Grillby isn’t like you-and-Toriel,” you suggest carefully. Sans looks unexpectedly pensive.

“his kinda elemental likes ta be independent,” Sans replies quietly. “he told me before that if….things’d been different, he’d a been like heats flamesman.”

“I have a hard time imagining that,” you admit.

Sans smiles fondly at the tabletop. “mm. well, i dunno. you’ve seen him when he gets riled, or when he dips in and gets a few colors deep. he’s real excitable under all those buttons. heh...” He looks up, warmth in his white eyes as he sips his second coffee. It doesn’t pour down through his jaw either, so Muffet must be in an extra good mood today. “but i gotta say….you got the wrong idea a little bit...but maybe... not the _whole_ thing.” Sans lets out a sigh, sobering a bit. Sheepish. “he’s not sitting around waiting for me or anything like that. and yeah, sometimes he’s jus’ busy. but there’s times i _should_ have been, been more...” He trails off, sighs. “remember when fuku had her kid?”

“Yeah.” Right before the explosion that hadn’t killed you both...and the first time his genitalia had showed up, now you think on it.

“i shoulda been there,” Sans says softly. “but i wasn’t, cause i wanted to spend time with you after we had that whole thing with you falling.”

“And lying to you,” you add sheepishly. “But...”

“...yeah. it was a month later, and i shoulda gone to stay with fuku n grillbz,” he says heavily. “he makes time for me. i shoulda made time for _them_ , but i was...” But then he glances at you, and his expression lightens instead of following the bummer rabbit down its hole. “i was there for fuku,” he says instead, a nostalgic smile toying with the corners of his fixed grin.

“How do you mean?”

“huh?”

“I don’t know what it means, ‘I was there for Fuku.’ Like, emotionally available?”

Sans huffs out a little laugh. “nah...i mean. when she got made, n when she got born.”

Oh my goodness. “You mean...her conception?” He nods. “There, or like...there-there?”

A little of Sans’s this-is-hilarious expression leaks through before he smooths it out. “more like what you probably mean by there-there. we, uh. shared it.” Sans shakes his head at you some more, squeezes your hand. “it it still happened the way it would have if he was by himself. all i was, was there.” He doesn’t quite manage to suppress a snort. “n maybe we did a lil there-there too.”

“I know,” you say defensively. You also blush and reclaim your hand.

Sans mildly and (un?)repentantly orders more donuts, calling out to Muffet without turning around. Muffet shoots an absolutely disgusted look at his back, and Sans does another odd little shudder even though he’s facing the other way.

“so. what’s all that stuff you been looking at lately after work?”

You blink.

“Huh?”

“your after-work wind down stuff. what is it?”

“Can’t you just look and see it?”

He shrugs. “or i could buy you coffee and donuts and _ask_ you bout it while muff stares her eggs into my skull with telekinesis.”

You untuck your hands from your armpits, even let a little giggle out, too. “That’s too funny for your show. Um. It’s mostly…um. Photos of animals, or dolls, and scientific diagrams with little captions that makes a story.”

“wow. really?”

You make a face at him. “Yeah. It’s all weird jokes and obscure references to other shit. Is that not elevated enough for your standards?” you add, since Muffet’s back with what is shaping up to be the final round.

“You never mind _him_ , ~dearie~,” Muffet says in an arch little hiss. “The likes of Sans should be worrying about meeting _your_ standards.”

And then, of _all_ things, she produces a very fancy, very tiny plate, neatly pinches off a piece of what appears to be a tidy little patisserie cake you’ve never seen before, and puts the morsel to your lips with her own fingers. And you eat it, because uh. Yeah. You’re not really sure what another option would even be.

It gets weirder when Sans’s eyes go hard and bright, and he finally looks up and stares Muffet in the eye. Doesn’t move his head or bend his neck to do it either, but those white points are dense and opaque over his sharpest grin. His hands are nowhere to be seen. She stares back, and her toothy smile widens slowly.

“think we’ll have this round ta go,” he says in a measured, sleepy drawl.

You have no idea what the hell any of it’s about; Muffet takes her sweet time producing an elaborate little gift box looking doodad from her capacious pantaloon thingies as they stare each other down. Sans dips a green little forefinger into his coffee and sniffs it without breaking the staredown; his sockets narrow dangerously. Then he stands up abruptly to make her step back, carelessly picks the cake up off the plate with his fingers and practically tosses it in the gift box. Puts the box in his pocket and walks around the table to sit in your lap.

You have just enough percent of a brain cell left to shut your eyes. There’s a lurch, gravity changes direction, and then you and Sans are lying on your sides on his bare mattress.

“What the fuck was _that_ about?” You’re a little too breathless to make the challenging tone you intended to really work.

Sans just hucks the cake box into the triangle gap between his mattress and the wall-corner, then wriggles his bony limbs around you. He pulls you close with a thrilled little shiver and a throaty groan. It turns immediately to heavy breathing, because now he’s all nuzzles and huffs up in your neck and stuff. Hoo boy. He’s all over you.

“Sans…!” It’s almost a whine, but your hands are already taking the initiative for yet another anatomy lesson. “That was weird! What happened?” He squeezes you with his arms and legs, lets you feel another hard shudder take him, and wriggles his skull between your cheek and the pillow.

“she jus’ _fed_ it to you right in front of _everyone_...” he moans, shuddering hard again.

“Yeah, she...did…?”

You can’t keep up. His cuddle power is too high. This is maximum cuddlage.

“that cake costs 9,999 g,” Sans whispers lustily against your ear, then nips the lobe to make you yip.

“Sans!” you choke out faintly, aghast. He just grunts and squeezes you against him some more.

“oh, i’m good for it, darlin’,” he breathes, dragging fingertips along your back and massaging your topmost asscheek insistently. “fuck, that was hot...”

He’s so aroused his soul’s thrumming against you like a struck bell through his ribcage. When he pulls back, and the agonized tenderness creasing the unyielding bone of his face makes your throat tighten. He strokes your soft cheeks gently with his thumbs.

“i know,” he rumbles huskily. “i know you got no way to know this stuff. but...i’ve been making an absolute jackass of m’self over you ever since….since you made me dance that time,” he says all in a rush, presses in to nuzzle you before leaning back again.

“i didn’t order that cake,” he breathes, and he makes a tight little laugh as the rims of his sockets go wet. “and you’d never ask me for it. you...” His exhale shakes, even though he seems like he’s calming down a little. Maybe. “she brought that out to show everyone i’d… let her do that. that i’d let her bring out _ten_ of em just to watch you eat em all one by one, that i’d snatch asgore’s crown right off his dopey head so i c’d-” he huffs, “-wipe your ass with it, cause you make me act fuckin’ _foolish_.”

Your breathing does a stupid little hiccup. “I’m sorr-”

“ _no_ ,” he growls, presses his face to yours again to suck your breath into his skull, lets it shudder out slow before he can continue. “she did it for _me_. cause i _wanted_ everyone to know there’s _nothing_ i wouldn’t do for you. wanted them to _see_ it, want everyone ta see _exactly_ how you make me feel...sh-sh, ohhh…babe, don’t...” His thumbs brush your suddenly wet eyes closed, and he pulls you against him.

“i never say stuff like this cause i know it’s hard for you, but… _let_ me. let me _say_ it, jus’ this once.” He lets you hide under his chin, just like you let him when he needs to. Thin, hard phalanges curl restlessly against your back, trying to figure out how to hold you more than he already is. “you don’t even know how...you do all these lil things that show me how you feel. not only me. you make sure _everyone_ knows you don’t want anything but _me_.” He makes a watery little laugh, lets you curl up tighter.

“sometimes, i don’t feel right. ‘s like i’m way off up in my head, go around doing stuff like ‘m sleepwalking. something’ll be _wrong_ n i just let it go, start feeling like nothing fuckin’ matters. you know why.” Sans shudders, curls up and flexes past human limit around you, _surrounding_ you. Words keep pouring out of him, his face pressed damply into your hair, exhaled hotly like he wants to push their meaning right into your brain with his breath, his body, his _soul_.

“i want you to _feel_ it, feel it deep down where you gotta know it’s true. that i _never_ let you go, no matter how many times we.…times we had to do it over. i know time gets away from me when i don’t feel right, but i won’t let it...let it take _you_ away. s’what i’m tellin’ you. i. won’t. let. you. go.” He tries to hold his breath, whimpers instead. “ _ever_.”

The little pieces of himself he puts in places time can’t touch ignite inside you.

“yeah,” he whispers, shuddering. “that goes both ways, too.”

He waits for as long as you need.

“so lemme take you out sometimes,” he says eventually, voice still wobbly but closer to normal. “let me do stupid shit over you, lemme make a…scene. let me give you something you don’t need just cause i _want_ to, okay?”

“Okay,” you reply, husky but calmer now, even soaked inside with the warmth that burning gentled into. Even with everything you are yearning towards him, calm despite its throbbing intensity. You pull back enough to look at him, take a long moment to stare into those bottomless sockets. “I just...don’t really understand why you want to so much?”

“cause i love watching you like stuff,” Sans murmurs. Then he dips down, nudging his penetrating heat all over your jaw and neck. The warm gusts of his breath give you a nice little shiver, and his fingertips work gently around your ears, slide to your nape. “like seeing you happy. makes me crazy, even though it’s just...you being you. it’s how you _are_ , you can’t not be. ‘cause you like stuff with your...your whole _soul_ ,” he whispers salaciously. “you give it everything ya got, and i lose my mind cause it reminds me...”

Sans wiggles for ballast, slips up over you like the smooth motherfucker he can be when he decides to feel like it. Unyielding femurs press your sides tight, tremble like he wants to do it even harder. When they relax, he lowers himself down and leans his full weight into you with a sigh.

“…watching you reminds me how you like me….how you love me.” He presses his ribcage to your chest, slides it back and forth a little. Soft cotton slips frictionless against glossy bone; your skin keeps the cloth of your shirt in place. “love me with your whole self,” he nuzzles into your neck. “and i love you right _back_.”

He leans up on an elbow, the points in his bottomless sockets broad and soft.

“i want you.”

A weird little squeak happens deep in your throat, makes you blush hard.

“you really that surprised to hear me say it?” he asks, tilting his skull as he cups your heated face in his hand, touches your lower lip with his thumb. He huffs softly, his eye lights fixed on your lips. You’re flustered, not sure how to reply.

“guess i gotta say it more, then. ‘cause i _do_. i want you to feel how special you are to me,” he whispers thoughtfully. “jus’ like you make me feel all the time.” He’s frowning gently at your mouth like it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve, and magic seethes fiercely across his zygoma. His hand drifts down, caresses the front of your shirt instead. “want you to feel me.”

Oooh. You shiver so hard you’re a little surprised _your_ bones don’t rattle.

“Go for it,” you grin, trying to play off your discomfiture. He smiles with a hint of indulgence, leans in to trace your features with his nasal bone. You can’t hold back a moan when you feel the penetrating coil of his call, already building momentum deep in the spaces between your body. He’s already caught up in it, and once you relax you’re sucked right into it with him. Feels like you exist in a shared bubble of timelessness, and you’re already drunk on the tingling resonance of his body and soul. His call intensifies, pulls everything you are into the haze of his patient, insistent arousal. He pulls back from your kisses to touch your mouth with his thumb, parts your lips with it. He moans when you take it in your mouth to tongue at the slow, steady tingle of magic.

“yeah...’m comin’ in hot, babe,” he quivers out, replaces his phalanx with his sensitive teeth before remembering to give you space to answer, presses their glassy-slick heat into your neck instead.

“I’m-” You grunt as his fingers pull your cotton collar out of his way; wow, he’s...really getting in there. “I am _seriously_ on board with whatever this is,” you manage.

“yeah?” he pants. “gonna let me spike you, darlin’?” It’s a filthy little growl into your skin, punctuated by a scrape of his nasal bone as he fights your shirt for access to more of you. He doesn’t even pull the fabric in a way you can feel, but your eyes widen as you hear the cloth tearing anyhow, moan as greedy phalanges caress suddenly bared skin. You groan and fondle his sacrum through the slick material of his shorts as he nudges and nips all along your now-exposed collarbone and shoulder.

“’m gonna do it _so slow_ ,” he promises breathily, spreading his fingers until the heel of his hand glides up your sternum. Keeps going in the same motion to slip his thumb in your mouth again, rocks it like he’s demonstrating. His desire snaps free to curl away into you like smoke until you’re humming dazedly around bone with how much he wants you. He tilts his face and brings it so close you hear teeth click against his thumb; he slides it to pet the soft dampness of your tongue as he inhales your helpless moan.

“thass it…gonna slip you out right onto me like a pretty lil sapphire ring...” His phalanx pulls out and he presses his teeth there instead, panting out soft little sounds as his fingertips make gathering motions all over your chest. Eventually you remember he expects more of an answer than breathless cursing, but neither of you mind building up to the moment you’re able to garble out a big, messy wad of _yes_. Holy shit.

You cry out against each other faces as he pulls you _slow_ , threading the midnight glow that’s everything you are onto tingling slivers of penetrating bone. It doesn’t ease the jolt, just draws it out more, makes it echo deep between where he’s exposing your soul and where it still resides in the space between your body.

It’s like he punched through a dam you didn’t even know was there, his presence crashing right through something insignificant as _bodies_ keeping you apart. The ocean that’s him follows itself through the breach with all the force of gravity to occupy the space where it _belongs_. He doesn’t gentle it; he _can’t_ , he’s just as helpless in the roil of who he is as you are. His inevitable chaos fills you to the infinite edges, and eventually his trembling slows as your embrace contains him.

You dissolve together in it, let its churning excitement quaver slowly into something….not exactly calmer, but more directed. It takes a long time, like a massive body of water slowly changing temperature...warming up. And that’s what it _is_ , it’s Sans adding what he _feels_ to who he _is_ , guiding the incongruity of his ocean inside your boat with the rudder of his skilled, careful fingers.

A warmth floods you that keeps intensifying until it aches, keeps aching until it sharpens into sweetness. The sweetness goes so sharp it cuts and warmth floods out once more. Love made like a wound that heals, always exciting, always profoundly comforting, even at its extremes. The sharpness sinks deep, glittering under endless waves as it’s lost, as it’s found, as it evaporates to be rained down into him before sinking again. Edges worn smooth, then crushed to sand under unimaginable pressure.

“yeah…that’s _me_ ,” Sans murmurs soft and dreamlike right by your ear. “you feel it? ‘s how you make me feel all th’time.” You do feel it, and you reach up under his shirt to gently finger the magic between his vertebrae. He gives you soft washes of that same progression while you play the space between his bones. His magic mists up eagerly over them, offering itself to you.

His breath tightens into a soft little moan when you kiss it away. He returns pleasure in kind, gives you a hundred tiny glimpses of yourself. How _he_ sees you, shaking up countless split-seconds and poignant moments to whirlpool inside you like mirrorshard clouds of glitter to be experienced over and over again.

Tiny muscles in your eyes reacting to changes in the light. The hard stride of your soul’s voice. The way something catches your interest, like everything else just disappears. The moment he figures out it’s nothing around you, might just be a thought. The little grunt you make when the bathwater’s the perfect temperature. The way you smell your coffee every time before taking a sip, really getting your life’s worth out of the experience.

And that’s what it is for you, what you bring to him. Why he wanted to take you out, show you off, give you something, anything, _whatever you want_ and just watch you _experience_ it.

He’d pay any price just for a front row seat to watch you eat your little slice of life.

And that’s what flows into him, so he breathes that back into you. Just like the mingled air and magic you inhale from inside his skull, transforming every exhale into a gift you give back to him.

Shared breath. Shared life.

_That’s_ what you are to him, what this relationship means.

Shared life, as natural and involuntary, as deliberate and careful as breathing.

Your essential self pulses with sweet yearning, because you want this to last forever.

“wanna give you that, too,” Sans whispers in miniature to fit in the space between your parted lips. “jus’ gotta let me in.” He fills you with anticipation so keen, you find yourself echoing his little hitching breaths. When his magic comes out, it’s the distilled essence of everything humble and small that needs only exist in order to be loved, the comfort of something working the way it’s supposed to, the joy of waiting for something good to happen. Everything he is, which is what he promised to share with you. And oh, he _does_.

Sans’s breath gushes out soft, an echo of the way this feels for him physically, and you feel it all over again as him-into-you. The same _everything_ from a slightly different angle; feels good coming out, good going in. Knowing the difference between good and bad things, patiently sorting through nuance that changes the color and texture of the truth. Everything slowly coming into balance around that center of truth. A compass that stays steady, even when it’s obscured by complexities that turn the brutal truths into compassionate ones, transform the harshness of facts into catalytic balms that change things for the better.

Sans’s pelvis is warm and bare under cloth, nudging gently against your belly as you thumb both his sacroiliac joints to continue coaxing his sweetness free. Your lovemaking is a haze of hard bone and tingling magic, hot teeth nipping at your lips as his body becomes a medium to share the ocean of his love for you. Everything he has pushes inside everything you are with the intent to make sure you feel it.

And you do. You _feel_ just how much he loves you, even as he hiccups faintly and the flow of him into you stills and calms, curls up to rest warm and safe inside you. Sans moans and quivers, dabbles that tranquil pool into little ripples with his fingers. Eventually he puts you back, but does it _slow_. Those ripples keep happening as you slide back into yourself. You’re a waterfall joining a lake backwards and forwards at the same time, Sans’s enamored whispers rolling in your mouth, the traces of his pleasured voice in his shaky exhales making your head spin with sweet indulgence. He presses his body against yours to share it when it floods out inside you, that still pool aligning and collapsing in on itself, solid and real and soaking you in his unique, exquisite peace.

The haze of it clears slow, like the sun pressing fog back into the earth. In the meantime, you both vaguely notice Sans’s trash tornado starting up. You hug each other happily, turning to watch it pick up little bits and pieces, gaining momentum.

Sans eventually leans up with a few slow, happy socket-blinks, then flops over to rummage in the space between his mattress and the wall. He rolls back with the gift box, gets back on top of you, and places it on your passionately bared chest like your own private little table unexpectedly set for two. Instead of a tablecloth, he pulls his favorite soft green blanket over his head like a tent to protect your feast from its potential depredations.

Sans looks so smug as he meticulously feeds you the ruinously expensive little treat from his _own_ gussied-up, pearly-green fingertips, watching you savor each morsel from about five inches away with loose, satisfied eye lights.

You make him eat some too. He pouts and argues, and you end up decorating each other liberally with smears of frosting. The funny thing is, it actually tastes like what you would imagine a cake that expensive would taste like. No wonder Sans’s opinion of Muffet remains high despite her...eccentricities, you suppose. Well, that and the way he seems to get off on being insulted by her. When the last crumbs are gone, Sans happily tosses the gift box into the tornado, which catches it like a pro and also seems to take as an invitation. Sans grips the blanket and ducks down close to you, and you spend its visit making out under the faintly bone-scented covers, safe yet exhilarated until it departs.

You wonder if Sans wants to be touched, but he just blushes and shakes his head adamantly, whispers that everything’s already perfect. Then he produces one of Grillby’s priceless damp-cloths, uses it to clean sticky sweetness from your grubby hands and faces, then tosses it away like a disposable baby wipe. He curls back up around you and pulls the blanket up once more with an existentially sated sigh. His bones give a final tremble before coming unstrung with sheer satisfaction, like his whole body’s melting against you. The faintly glowing stars embedded all over his ceiling and walls are the only light, and everything is heartbreakingly lovely. Perfect, like he said.

And this is when you’d usually fall asleep, because Sans would already be snoring.

The minutes pass.

Then a few more.

“guess we kinda drank a lot of coffee,” Sans says quietly. “you wanna show me those wind-down animal picture thingies?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> Thank you for reading!!  
> So, if you happen to have something you might like to see me write about here, if you'd like to leave a prompt please feel free! And if I like it I'll consider writing it? I have plenty of chapters sketched out but new idea boxes are also extremely cool and appreciated <3


	6. the space between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so. This chapter’s the start of a loosely connected arc in three parts. The Sans I write in this series was badly abused as a child. That’s not the kind of thing that just goes away, or only shows up when it’s relevant to a plot.
> 
> It’s a slice of his life, and Reader’s life, and so on across the web of characters in this story. Nothing explicit about abuse, but it’s detailed in regard to cPTSD and the way layered triggers can function. There's some mentions of self-harm and suicidal ideation.
> 
> Be safe. <3
> 
> https://youtu.be/uiVav5nBmOE

“Still on the Rainy Day playlist, huh?”

Grillby nods, polishing things busily in between doing something with various liquids. There’s a lot of sticking his fingers in stuff. When you’re made of literal fire, it’s not even unsanitary.

Sans has been under the table with Lola for two days now, and you suspect Sans still hasn’t told anyone why. You’ve been stopping in after work, but otherwise business as usual other than if Sans is sleeping, he’s doing it here. He’s been eating as well as drinking, so that’s good.

“I noticed there are some songs that aren’t on here,” you try, since Grillby seems to have been absorbing the slightly dour atmosphere.

_...This is the limited mix_ , Grillby says evasively. Then he crackle-grunts as soon as you open your mouth, and continues, _...You’ll have to ask_ _him_ _why they’re not on it, because I don’t actually know._

You’d be stung by his tone, if it wasn’t for the expression on his expressionless not-a-face, that for some reason you can still read anyhow. He’s just worried. You sit there watching him with your head on your arms for about another twenty minutes before you finally realize that sentence meant it’s _your_ job to tell _him_ why Sans is under the table.

“Grillbyyyyy,” you whine in complaint. “You know you can’t just imply things.”

He ignores you and turns purple at the edges.

“You’re fucking _killing_ me, Grillby.”

Grillby doesn’t hunch, but he does a good impression of having done so anyways. He busies himself with three customers who arrive to process whatever he needs to process, then comes back over near you where he’d been before. He sheepishly sticks his fingers in a few more clear bottles, which you think he might be sterilizing the interiors of.

“Don’t be mad at me for things I can’t help,” you say very gently.

… _.I’m sorry_ , he crackles, voice barely there.

“Will you go in your room with me?”

……………….. _yes_ , he flickers, and joins you for the journey right away. A lot of times he finishes up and meets you there, but he must be pretty antsy.

Grillby sits next to you on the bed and tilts his flames at you, all warm politeness.

You sigh heavily and give him a crooked grin.

“Me and Sans were doing the do in my room at the skeleton household, and Frisk accidentally walked in on us,” you inform him regretfully. Your eyes widen at his immediate jolt, and you shake your head. “Just bodies,” you say quickly as his posture softens a little, “and, um. Just bones, but he’s still pretty rattled.”

He gives you an exasperated look.

“I can’t actually help it,” you shrug. Grillby really should be used to it by now. “But, yeah. They had every reason to believe no one was home; we snuck back in after everyone left for a thing.” Shortcut. “It was just, we were kind of distracted, and it’s not like they can hear us or anything, and Frisk left some of Sari’s stuff in there. They feel really bad, but they’re not going through it like Sans is,” you shrug, make a little wince-face so he knows it’s no one’s fault.

Grillby’s still recovering from the split second of thinking anyone saw Sans that wasn’t supposed to. The idea of a human walking in and seeing their soul...turns out that’s actually a big, ubiquitous monster fear that they never really talk about. It doesn’t matter that humans can’t see the stuff monsters can in their souls. The idea of someone they didn’t expose themselves for seeing it by accident freaks them right the fuck out.

“I guess that doesn’t happen with monsters, since they can always feel it when people are sharing souls somewhere, huh?”

_...Well. Souls, yes. Other things, not so much…_ he says with a wry little twist.

“Okay, _there’s_ a story and I want to know it,” you say bluntly, and Grillby seem quite willing to lighten up now he at least knows the basics of why Sans is so upset.

Grillby grins. _….Have you looked in the cupboard of my lovely and remarkably well-appointed bathroom?_

“I’m...” you frown. Ellipses are contagious. It’s mostly full of little white cloths, rolled up neatly. Then your eyebrows lift, impressed. “Are those the same cloths as Sans’s bad nap case?” He nods smugly. “And they clean up after themselves?”

_...They do if they don’t want to pay double for everything afterwards…for as long as I_ _ **decide**_ _they should,_ he informs you primly.

“Couldn’t they just ask to use your bedroom?”

_...Quite possibly_ , he says, smirk melting into fake-innocent face, _….But_ _for some reason_ _, they do not._

“Waaaow,” you deadpan, impressed by weird monster kinks.

… _._ _Craig is still paying triple….for about another month_ , he says, seeming more satisfied than annoyed. _….That’s the going rate for_ _forgetting to lock_ _the door_ , he finishes at your questioning glance, and you share a quiet giggle over it. Pissing Grillby off comes with a price tag, but as far as you know, no monster’s ever been banned.

This place is too important.

“Frisk feels really guilty. They’re seriously convinced they, I don’t know. Broke Sans forever, on top of having to see what his face looks like when he’s getting his pelvis fingered.” You sigh, shake your head. “I….think they sort know why it’s so bad, and also sort of don’t.”

Grillby looks at the wall and thinks for several minutes.

_...Frisk was not like most children. They...picked fights. With Sans._

“Frisk kinda told me about that,” you say quietly. Frisk knew where are all of Sans’s sore spots are, and never hesitated to poke at him right where it hurt the most.

_..._ _They tried to kill him,_ Grillby adds like it’s nothing, and you gape at him. _...I know it’s surprising, but….Sans...prevented them from doing so,_ _and from hurting anyone else_ _. At great cost._

“What cost?” You husk out. You have a bad feeling that maybe Sans _wasn’t_ always able to stop them.

Grillby takes a minute before answering, fiery gaze somewhere beyond the wall. _…..Frisk refused to stop until they were too badly hurt to continue_ , he crackles reluctantly. _….Sans took responsibility for Frisk. As did...Papyrus._

You recall one of the first things Papyrus had ever said to you, the day you met him for real. It had been that they, meaning he and his brother, were “responsible” for Frisk. He'd insisted. Responsible for harm they caused, and took it upon themselves to see to it the harm Frisk had done  _you_ was...well. It wasn’t reparable, but they had certainly kept you from worse fates than the one you’d probably have met if they hadn’t.

“Holy hell.” Really all there is to say to that.

… _._ _I still don’t know_ _ **why**_ , Grillby says helplessly. _….Why always Sans? What could he, he ever have done…._

“It’s because they’re similar,” is what you end up saying. “I think Frisk believed only Sans was as bad as them, or at least knew how bad _they_ really were.The thing neither of them knew about thesmelves, they knew about each other. So whenever Frisk felt the worst….they made it Sans’s problem. Like he was bad enough to handle how bad they felt like they were.”

You and Grillby share a sad look.

_..._ _He never asked me to hurt him_ , he whispers. _….He knew I wouldn’t._ It makes sense, in a way. Frisk always had too much power for anyone to bear, and hurt too much inside to be able to make good decisions. A situation where no one had any good decisions they could make anymore, maybe. Sans was forced to hurt Frisk _by_ Frisk, but he still hated himself for doing it. And because of what happened when he was little, the way that made him feel…. they’re totally separate things, but his forgotten past still affected the way he reacted to the problems with his family.

He hated himself for hurting Frisk. He felt like he deserved to be hurt even worse, and he found humans willing to do that, no questions asked. Most people don’t know any of that ever happened.

“I wouldn’t want to do that either,” you say quietly. “I think he knows.”

… _._ _It’s not…._ Grillby looks miserably at the wall. _….Not what he did, it’s that….it wasn’t **safe**._

“I know.” You sigh explosively. “But...he came here, right?” Grillby nods. “I’m glad.”

… _._ _He didn’t want me to see it_ , he says quietly, and your eyebrows lift. _….He….says something to me when he….doesn’t want to_ , Grillby says, tinged purple at the edges. _...Like he did before you had your talk._

“huh?”

_...After he met you?_

The heat of your face rivals Grillby’s. You’ve never talked about _that_ whole thing.

_We don’t have to talk about it…_ he says, concerned by your reaction. _….Sans and I….worked those things out long ago._ You clear your throat, but it doesn’t really clear. _….We had a fight_ , he says, and that surprises you enough to penetrate the pit of your discomfort. _….I was angry because he… didn’t want to,_ _after the first few times_ _._ _F_ _or about fifty years._ Ahhh. He’s climbing into the discomfort pit with you. Weirdly, it helps. _…._ _I was...not considerate. Just because he seemed fine to me, doesn’t mean that he was._

“Yeah,” you manage, and it seems to hearten him. It’s not easy for him to talk about this stuff.

… _._ _I should have known that what I felt in him was….that it would affect his behavior at other times. That he might not want to...have anyone see it. I thought it would only have...to do with. The times when we were….together._ Grillby’s sigh smells like sand baking in the sun. _….I was foolish._ _But he says something to me now, when he...might not. Want to for a while. So I won't fool myself into believing how he seems...is how he is inside.  
_

“He makes me pretty foolish too,” you mumble shyly, but he shakes his head.

… _.You help him say things he needs to say_ , Grillby insists. _….Among many other wonderful things._

“Like you help him feel ways he wants to feel,” you whisper, and it looks like hearing it feels the same as the other thing felt to you. Grillby visibly decides to say something.

… _.Toriel couldn’t help Sans with those things_ , he says, quiet and even. _…._ _I_ _ **know**_ _he doesn’t tell you_... His candor surprises you once again. _…._ _It’s not her fault she couldn’t, and it’s not Sans’s fault he needed help._ He sighs. _...It is both their faults they were too afraid to try._ _But how they felt about each other was real, and still is. That’s why it’s hard for them._

“Sans still...came here when he was staying with Toriel, right?”

_...Yes? More often than now, I think._

“Because they….didn’t do that?”

He makes the same gesture Sans uses to indicate that he doesn’t understand.

“When they were together, he came here a lot? To share souls with you?”

_..._ _Don’t say anything to him, but…_ Grillby looks sheepish. . _..I was getting a little worn out._

You cover your face and have to laugh it out.

“Sans really, um. Yeah,” you chuckle, and Grillby quivers whitely with mirth. “All or nothing, you know?”

_...Well. I’m a bit more experienced with the **all** , but yes. _

“I’m kind of glad there’s two of us, sometimes,” you admit, blushing. Grillby once again has no idea what you’re talking about, so you take a deep breath and explain it. “I just mean, me and you both, um. Have sex with him?” Still nothing. “So when he gets super um, sexual, he…?”

… _._ _Oh_ , Grillby says, looking like he’s trying to wrap flames around an idea through sheer force of will. _….Oh, if_ _he wants to share his soul_ _when_ _ **you**_ _don’t_ _want_ _to, he can--_

“No! I didn’t mean, like, no, um,” you’re blushing harder now, because the _last_ thing you want is to suggest either of you’s a second fiddle for Sans’s needy bow, “we’re like, um, a relationship, right? Me, you and Sans are a _relationship_ , so we all um, we _all_ can...”

Grillby’s suddenly _pink_ in the middle, just above his collar. You don’t think you’ve seen pink before, and your mouth just kind of stays open after the words sputter out.

… _.We are?_ he says, soft and open as a book.

“Well, yeah,” you say. It’s like his strange blush or whatever cools yours. “We all take care of each other.”

Grillby looks at the floor like it did a flip, but he flicker-nods jerkily.

“I’m hungry,” you blurt, and his laughing sigh makes you prickle with sweat. His composure returns from whatever weird pink place it went, and you wordlessly rise in tandem go out and check on Sans.

You and Grillby wander over to Lola’s table, then sit down just past the edge of the table on the floor to be at the same level as those under it. Lola’s leaned against a pile of pillows and dirty clothes that Sans’s phone likely provided, one leg cocked up with that elbow supporting the bottle she’s chugging from. None of you say anything, respecting the space between you. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t communicating.

All four of you know the same thing, and are where you are for the same reason.

Sans has been crying directly into Lola’s armpit for about 53 hours because his kid walked in on him with his pants off getting his pelvis diddled, and he had the perfectly normal response of feeling startled, grossed out, and embarrassed. That isn’t the problem, though.

Sans is under the table because feeling startled (frightened), like his privacy was intruded upon (violated), grossed out (disgusted), and embarrassed (humiliated) makes him become sexually aroused, no matter what caused those feelings int he first place. It's a response he can’t control. The arousal itself frightens, disgusts, violates, and humiliates him, and it closes into a loop he gets _stuck_ in. It was a trap created on purpose to make him exactly how he is now, unable to function or take care of himself. Powerless to stop it, or really do much of anything except what he’s doing.

He can’t actually help it, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do to stop it. That choice was taken from him by someone who hurt him badly, but even though he knows that now, it doesn’t actually help much. It makes it a _lot_ worse that it was Frisk was involved in any way, because that makes everything even more gross for Sans. Makes him terrified he’s a bad person, like he might be someone who abuses kids because even if Frisk’s not a child anymore, they’ll always be _his_ kid. He knows that’s not true, but it still doesn’t help. Also not helping: he’d not only been aroused already when it happened, but actually having sex at the time.

Sans usually gets strong urges to hurt himself when this happens for any reason, but _this_ time...well. You certainly hadn’t let go of his bones, and Frisk had already run away. You’d somehow managed to get him to Grillby’s; you still don’t remember what you said, and it’s doubtful it was even that.

You’re grateful Sans has such a well-established pattern of coming right here when something happens he can’t deal with.

Grillby gets up and goes to the kitchen to make you something, and you blow Lola a little kiss. She pretends to grab it with her little plucking gesture she makes, and your eyes actually fill with how touched you are by it. She winks, gives Sans an absent, comforting pet. You know he’s crying, but you can’t hear it over the jangly guitar of his playlist.

Sans can’t believe that anyone could ever love him knowing that _this_ happens to him. Thing is, he’s shared souls with you, Lola, and Grillby. You know why he’s like this, and he can’t not know you all love him anyway. In different ways, and you’re not the only ones, either.

Papyrus was here yesterday, being extra loud and stomping around. Grillby made him a milkshake, and he got louder and stompier. Mettaton came by in the evening and they did one of their dance routines, the whole while Papyrus pretending he was doing anything _but_ checking on his brother. Sure, he knows Grillby can heal Sans if he needs it, and he knows his brother’s never left alone when he comes here. Not when he comes here to go under the table. Papyrus knows Sans will be cleaned and fed, encouraged to sleep if he can, watched and comforted and probably sedated by the most expert and experienced chemist monsterkind has to offer.

He’s in good hands, and Papyrus comes to see that he is, to make himself feel better. To see if Sans needs anything, just in case.

Monsters from Snowdin hear (without anyone saying anything in particular) that Sans is under the table, and they come just a little more often to drink, eat and laugh, make all sorts of good noises so Sans knows everything is okay. That something good is possible somewhere, maybe closer than he thinks. And sometimes, usually at night now that they have those for real, Grillby passes out extra tablecloths. He finds a reason to bring up his bathroom, walks a few people into the back so Sans can know everything’s been okay before, that it will be again at some point.

Sans cries a lot, and it’s hard work. It hurts so much the magic will come out one way or another, and it feels less gross for him to do it this way. Every last bit of himself is needed to maintain it, to just keep existing for another second, a minute, an hour. He gives it his all; Sans is **doing nothing** as hard as he can.

He doesn’t run away, even though he could. He lets people who love him stay near, lets then clean and hold and feed him as much as he can bear. He doesn’t try to hurt himself, or do something even worse.

You honestly think it’s really brave of him. But you don’t say anything like that, since he couldn’t handle hearing it right now.

Maybe someday.

Grillby comes back and hands you a basket of the special fries he makes for you now, all your favorite toppings on there like a big bowl of ramen, except fries instead of noodles. You take the chopsticks with a nod of thanks and begin to eat. You enjoy the music, enjoy your meal. There’s some of that spicy beetle powder like Toriel gives you on top instead of reverse-pickled snail ovotestis, and some kind of crumbly crunch thing to mix it up. Sans groans and shivers in the gulf between two songs, but afterwards he seems a little more relaxed.

Sans is neither a spectacle, nor a secret. He’s not exposed to unwanted scrutiny, nor is he tucked away like something shameful. He’s not bumming anyone out by existing, and no one needs him to do anything. You’re not here to stare at him, and he knows that. He knows you’re here because you just love him, and want to spend time with him even if he can’t be okay. Well, he doesn’t know that right _now_ , but he will once he can have normal feelings again.

You stay for a little while even after you’re done eating, just spending time. You don’t touch him, don’t even put an arm inside there. Sure, when it comes to communicating with monsters, there’s a lot you need to be explicitly told. For some reason, this isn’t one of them. You just know not to go in there, not to touch anyone in there. Like, it isn’t really a pocket dimension or anything, but it’s good to pretend it is. Only Grillby's supposed to put things in and take them out.

It’s a special place, where only special people who feel a certain way can go. You haven’t felt like that in a long time...but. Knowing there’s a place where people who feel like that can go and stay as long as they need to….has actually made it so that’s less likely to happen.

Sans can’t feel how he feels right now and live with it. But how Sans feels while he’s in here _doesn’t count_ , so he doesn’t have to kill himself. He can go in here instead, stay for as long as he needs in the sacred space he and Lola made, that everyone who knows and loves them creates along with them, walls of belief protecting them from themselves. Only specific and predictable interactions between those under the table and those not are allowed at these times. But there are some things you need at Grillby’s too, and you’re just as much a part of this as everyone else. So you break the rules in the one way you’ve decided to, a way that everyone’s agreed to allow.

“I love you,” you mumble softly around a mouthful of fries. Sans groans and cries harder, and Lola pets the back of his skull soothingly. But he doesn’t make that heartrending retching sound he makes instead of throwing up because skeletons _can’t_ actually throw up, like he did the last few times you said it. He doesn’t try to puke out the irreconcilable knowledge that someone could love something like him. Somehow, it goes in and stays there...for a little while.

You and Lola share a calm, fond smile.

He’s getting better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of my stories are for and about people who know how you bear the unbearable.
> 
> You just kind of don’t. <3
> 
> Sans is not-okay-style okay right now, but he’s going to get back to regular-okay soon.


	7. This Charming Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sans explains a tattoo, Reader invokes the Sacred Right To Fuss, they both get Rowdy (for them), and Papyrus provides classified beverages.
> 
> Prince – Raspberry Beret  
> https://youtu.be/l7vRSu_wsNc

“SANS’S COFFEE IS ONLY GOOD BECAUSE HE BUYS IT FROM MUFFET,” Papyrus informs you primly. Sans, asleep, snort-snores on his shoulder in protest.

Papyrus pretends to be Very Busy with the water and filters and presses and whatnot, but you see his mouth twitch with satisfaction. Sans finally let Papyrus extract him from under the table and take him home the day before yesterday, but he’s been...napping...since then. Papyrus of course went to sleep with Sans initially, even the World's Tallest Living Skeleton no match for Sans's soporific aura of Ultimate Naptime.

But he’s been awake again for a while now, and is likely getting a bit impatient having to do most things one-armed and trailing Z’s. It’s even possible he might like to go to work at some point, or perhaps has upcoming plans. He will, however, honor his commitment to carrying his brother around until he is officially “awake” again. At this point Sans is just being clingy. Which is also allowed. Within reason.

Either way, you’re happy to sit at the table after a half-day at work, and watch Papyrus gently provoke his brother into consciousness with increasingly irresistible comedic setups and shit-talk irrelevant to any of Sans’s current problems. Right now, Papyrus is doing what Sans usually would, which is be coaxed into making you an after-half-work-day half-cup of coffee. You call it an afterhalfter, because it makes Papyrus do the pouty face.

It’s kind of obvious Papyrus is hoping the other half of that coffee will also be deployed.

In the end, Papyrus actually has to resort to something that veers dangerously close to self-deprecation before Sans finally lifts his noggin under his own steam and lets two reverse new-moon slits of blank socket show. It’s wobbly, but even Sans at his most petulant won’t allow that blasphemy to stand.

“Looks like you’ve got status jack-o-lantern, Papyrus,” you giggle. You set your chin on your fist as he adds the inevitable sweets and sprinkles and glitter and frills and umbrellas to the coffee, then begins arranging a second cup in response to your timely news report. “Now you just need to light the candle.”

“AND THERE’S NOTHING MORE FLAMMABLE THAN CAFFEINE!” You don’t argue, since you have no idea if that’s true or not. Then you can’t resist and look it up. Turns out it’s “slightly flammable to flammable in presence of open flames and sparks, of heat.” You press your lips together. Results inconclusive, although there’s certainly a case to be made that _several_ substances.... Then you look up, because Papyrus is plopping Sans down in the chair opposite you.

“you distracted me on purpose,” you pout at Papyrus, whose sunny grin is utterly impenetrable.

“WHY ON EARTH WOULD I DO THINGS FOR YOU THAT YOU’RE PERFECTLY CAPABLE OF DOING YOURSELF?”

His bright tone is punctuated by the clink of him setting a mug against Sans’s teeth, like a lone triangle going _ting_ before the second verse of a song. “HERE COMES THE TSUNDEREPLANE DOWN THE SKULL-HATCH!” he hollers gently at his partially conscious brother, then uses a forefinger to tilt his chin up. He lets the frothy dessert arrangement he tops coffee with function as a sweetening sieve against Sans’s teeth, turning the liquid underneath to syrup as it trickles slowly between them.

After about 30 seconds of anticipation, Sans’s rumble-motor catches and he manages to sputter out, “...revenge’s sweet, huh bro?”

Something tight around Papyrus’s brow you hadn’t noticed before eases once his brother speaks. And it’s true that sickly-sweet isn’t exactly Sans’s _favorite_ flavor, but he can and will take his medicine for mildly testing his brother’s comparatively finite patience.

“THAT’S RIDICULOUS, SANS,” Papyrus announces, removing finger and mug with alacrity. “THIS IS _HOT_ COFFEE.”

Sans slumps in the chair, blinking once or twice as his eyes grow more opaque in his sockets. He picks up the mug and takes another sip, despite his roundabout complaints.

“heya, good-lookin’,” he says casually, like it isn’t the first time he’s spoken directly to you in about nine days. It’s how he usually is after one of his Things, and it reassures you quite effectively. “how’s tricks?”

“Hmm….they’re okay, but I think I could really go for a treat,” you reply, pointedly not looking at Papyrus. He vibrates indignantly, but does in fact stalk to the counter and bring back _your_ mug, forgotten in his preoccupation with getting Sans awake. It’s cute how worried he is, and it’s certainly relatable. You and Papyrus can always rely each other to have same-feelings at, and you’ve both been tense lately, what with Sans and Things. You don’t take the bickering personally. Most of the time. Especially since your relationships tend towards bicker-y with everyone except Sans and… yeah, you missed the shit out of him, and so did Papyrus. That doesn’t stop you from wanting to have same-feelings with Paps, since now you’ve got more than worry and the usual to offer.

You grin with delight up at Papyrus as he sets your ice-cream-cone-esque coffee creation down in front of you. He pinkens becomingly as he gently claps your shoulder in approval of your new mood. The torrent of strangely specific praise you unleash makes the pink happen more, and side effects include knocking all the crabby edges off Sans leftover from his brother’s provoking.

Papyrus finally begins his “WELL, THIS HAS BEEN DELIGHTFUL...” speech, opening the kitchen window. You and Sans listen attentively as he does a kind of handstand on the floor, tilts until his feet exit the window, and the rest of him begins to slither after them. It takes a minute, and with a final wiggle like a snake is eating him backwards, Papyrus finally makes his departure complete.

You sigh, poking at your melting coffee dessert-island with the long-spoon Papyrus puts in. It's meant to aid as a shovel when all the coffee toppings inevitably end up being bottoms. Hee hee. _Bottoms_.

“That was one of his better ones,” you tell you cup, then smile up at Sans. He seems a little fragile, but that’s only because you have cheatypants soul feelings. He _looks_ fine.

“sure was. especially considering he didn’t even pay a bear to pursue ‘im.” Sans waggles his browbones at you, ignoring his coffee as the melting part sinks in and makes it overflow onto the table.

“Your Shakespeare reference pleases me,” you inform him primly, digging out some soggy bottoms and sucking them lasciviously off the spoon. “Still not as sweet as you,” you add to soften the teasing. Aww. He likes it. “Can we talk about it?”

He doesn’t react as badly as you feared. Might have something to do with taking his time rolling around in it. Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that would help, but it does. Sometimes you have to give yourself time to really feel how you feel before you can change it. You understand him better than most people, which is why he’s willing to make an exceptional effort to also meet your needs. Which boil down to talking about it.

“i, uh.” he makes his dry skeleton throatclearing noise. “feel pretty bad about all of it.”

“Yeah.”

“how’re you doing?” he asks, and he’s not just deflecting. He also means it.

“Happier now that you’re walking and talking again,” you say, “but otherwise, fine. I took a half day at work so we could spend time together, since I figured Papyrus’ patience timer was set to ding about now.” He seems nonplussed by that information. “I feel like I understand everything that happened,” you offer. “A lot of times it stressed me out because I didn’t know what the problem was. Now I know what the problem was, so...” you trail off, because his magic’s agitated in his face. “I just mean we don’t have to like, go over everything. I get it, I was there. It’s a normal problem.”

Sans looks at the tabletop, grin flattened. “that’s not normal.”

You feel conflict burbling, but something billows into your mind that’s actually helpful for a change.

“It’s not normal that my body hurts all the fucking time,” you point out. “But it’s not...a problem, even though it is?”

He’s thinking about it.

“Sometimes bodies just do things,” you say softly. After a few minutes of quiet and you eating your soggy bottoms, he wipes his sockets with his sleeves. “I know it’s hard to know that when it’s happening,” you add. “But you can know it now. So….remember to do that part, too.”

“okay,” he says, hoarse but calmer. And you’re calm too, right up until he lifts his head and croaks, “i missed holding you at night.”

Then your cup’s on the floor and you're kneeling in front of him, arms wrapped around his hips and crying into his pelvis. It’s very dignified, and takes a little while. The third time he says your name, you manage to lift your puffy face and look at him without making the boo-hoo noise.

“’m kinda smelly,” he says, out of all the possible things he could say about it. It’s kind of why you love him. “been like four days since grillbz hosed me off. wanna take a bath with me?”

You’ve never wanted anything more, and it’s everything you dreamed it would be as you watch Sans upend his box of bathing objects into the bubbly green water. You love Papyrus's bathroom. The eyelet lace on the edge of the narrow window curtain is made in little 3-hole patterns with scalloped bottoms to _look like skulls_. It doesn't get old. When Sans shuts the tap off, you both take your time groaning and soaking.

“how’s frisk?” he asks in an oddly small voice.

“Fine,” you say, attempting to shape some bubbles into a wiener. It’s lopsided. “They were upset, but, you know. Regular style. And they worried about you but knew it wasn’t their business. I took care of making sure Toriel knew you two didn’t have a fight, and that’s _it_.”

“yeah.” He picks up a brush but doesn’t do anything with it. “guess it’s more surprising it didn’t happen sooner, now i think on it,” he sighs regretfully.

“Walking in on your parents doing the do is pretty common for a lot of humans, depending. Around here it’s practically a rite of passage that doesn’t mean anything and is actually just super unpleasant for everyone.”

That actually makes him grunt a little laugh.

“guess you’re right.” he sighs. “…ugh.”

“Are you guys going to avoid each other?”

He shrugs, which is basically an admission.

“Any reason?”

“s’awkward, darlin’.”

“You’re giving Frisk time to forget what your pelvis looks like?”

He cocks his skull, looks over at you. “frisk knows what my pelvis looks like,” he says mildly, then seems to realize something. “...hm. guess you don’t take baths or get changed with the kids once they get past a certain age, huh?”

“Oh. Yeah, no, I don’t. I don’t see my sister either, not since we were really little.”

Sans just nods, then gets quiet for a minute. “not about seeing that,” he tries. It’s okay, you already know what he’s getting at. Not about Frisk seeing his body, but seeing what you were doing to it, and how he felt about it.

“It might not have been so bad if you’d been doing me, huh?”

He flushes and looks miserable for a second, which was not the intended effect. Then he shakes his skull, and it seems to dissipate.

“probably not.” He looks at you with a sad shrug. “coulda been worse, though.” He steels himself, takes a deep breath. “frisk doesn’t know about, uh...” He gestures, and your eyebrows lift. “just….makes it easier for me that way. kinda like...you don’t know what shape they got. not the same...reason, but the same _kinda_ reason.” He meets your eyes again, then taps the side of his skull with a forefinger. Ahh. If Sans knew Frisk knew, he’d behave differently around them, and he doesn’t want that.

You take your time in the bath, but don’t end up refilling or anything. Back his room, it takes him longer than you expected to find something that passes sniff-muster. Not that you don’t appreciate an extended viewing of his pelvic outlet as he searches in the closet crap-waterfall for something to wear.

“Been a while since you did laundry?”

He hums the _I dunno_ sound.

“Papyrus says you’ve done the special laundry a total of six times since you’ve lived in this house.” They’d moved in here once they’d left the temporary housing from the whole surfacing in the first place thing, and it is well into the second decade of monsters on the surface. Papyrus _does_ do the laundry, sans items Sans has emitted a certain amount or particular kind of slime on to the point where no one but Sans should be touching them.

“that so,” he drawls, tugs his shirt until his skull finally pops through the neckhole. Must be a relatively new-ish one; most of his shirt’s neckholes succumbed to the prodigious girth of his dome eons ago.

You wonder where he got it, immediately preceding the best idea you have ever had in your entire life.

“ _Sans_!!” you yell-gasp, and he actually jumps.

“you okay there, babe?” He’s smiling now, because he knows that’s the happy flappy.

“I’m going to buy you an outfit,” you breathe, rounding your eyes at him. “Let’s go to the place! I’m going to make you wear _clothes_!”

“’m wearing clothes now,” he says, eye lights wiggling as if they can escape his fate.

“Noooooo….” you grin evilly. “ _Date_ clothes.”

Hard bone creases gently into dismay, so you pull out the big guns, saunter over to him, and wrap his shoulders with your squeaky-clean, apple-scented arms.

“Let me fussss…..” 

Sans sags dramatically at your sibilant stage-whisper, defeated by your invocation of the Sacred Right To Occasionally Fuss.

Half an hour later, you’re in the dressing room together at Themporium, even though Sans says these clothes on him are technically a form of crossdressing. Crossdressing is highly fashionable among monsters, so you go fucking ham and make him try on pretty much anything with a cute pattern or design that’s anywhere close to his size. And those you just have to eyeball; monster clothing at shops is usually sorted into sections involving number of limbs. Considering Sans has two arms, two legs, a head, and walks upright, there’s a pretty good selection available.

“’s tight,” Sans observes, plucking at where the gathered fabric presses the ambient buffer of magic that usually puffs his clothes out close to his spine. Oh.

“Is it uncomfortable? Hurts?”

Sans shakes his skull right away, still plucking and starting to blush. “’m not...used to it.”

Ohhhh. He _likes_ it.

“Well, you better work on that, because I’m buying this one,” you inform him archly, and he clears his not-throat in a rather gratifying way.

“you got the whole store over there?” he asks, darting his eyes over the pile of “maybes”.

“This is way more fun when I’m not the one trying shit on,” you inform him instead of answering, then pull one of the all-one-piece clothes out of the pile. When you examine the patterned fabric, what almost looked like curly grass turns out to be layered purple, grey, and black silhouettes of what has to be an octopus of some kind.

“This is fucking awesome,” you mumble.

A skeletal hand extends itself, Sans standing barebones and giving you the cocked, tolerant browbone of true love. You hand him the thing, and he motions you to sit on the little ledge-bench so he can put a hand on your shoulder for balance while putting it on.

“You don’t ever wear underwear,” you observe.

“uh, nope,” Sans says, trying to loop his foot in what’s hopefully a leg hole.

“Any reason?”

“mos’ monsters don’t unless they got stuff that flaps or flops,” he grunts. He leans off you and pulls up what turns out to be a shorts-that-looks-like-skirt on the bottom part, and then is kind of a short-sleeved button up dress shirt looking thing at the top. No gather at the waist, so he fills out the middle quite nicely.

You exhale, enamored.

“what?”

“You look like a sexy grandpa,” you breathe, hearts in your eyes.

“kinda what i am, darlin’,” he giggles, magic agitating across his cheeks and maxilla.

“Do you have any flip flops?”

“gonna believe me if i tell you i do?”

You stand, gather him into your arms and stroke the silky fabric over his bones.

“Not after you said that,” you gush, rubbing your cheek all over him.

In the end you turn your pockets out and leave with that outfit, two pairs of flip flops, the one gathered tight at the waist that you will make him wear at some point even if it’s just in private, and an order put in for several sets of what Sans usually wears. You’d have ordered socks, too, but Sans says he “has a supplier” for those.

“Hot Dog Nite,” you say once you get home, tossing the new purchases into the piles in his room that he indicates.

“huh?”

“Hot. Dog. _Nite_ ,” you clarify, pushing a flip flop a little deeper into the indicated pile of clothes, papers, and what may be plumbing supplies. And a bike wheel. He points at his desk drawer from where he lies with his head dangling off the side of the bare mattress, and you put the matching flip flop in there. “If you procure the ‘dogs to my satisfaction, you may choose the programming,” you intone ceremonially.

His smile is no less loving for being upside-down.

“okay.”

You make him wear the gathered-waist outfit for your Date on the couch, then feel a little bad about it when Frisk walks right in the door, immediately stops dead in their tracks, and gestures, “What are you _wearing_??”

Sans’s face seethes hard...then oddly enough, fades completely.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he gestures unexpectedly in the language only he and his brother speak, but that they can allow others to understand anyways. “This is what I always wear.”

Frisk looks outraged.

“You always wear the same exact thing!” they slash out. “That’s _completely_ different!!”

“Oh, _I_ know what you mean now,” Sans says, nodding sleepily. Then he points to an enamel pin from his drawer he added for “flavor,” according to him. It’s shaped like a bottle of ketchup like the ones he’s always drinking out of.

“I thought this would make my same old boring clothes fancier,” he gestures smugly, then taps the pin again. Frisk’s outrage increases, and they shoot you an accusing look. You don’t imagine your barely-suppressed hilarity soothes them. And indeed, they stomp away down into their room without further comment, punctuated with a decisively closed door. Bones fingers creep into yours when MK’s tinny over-the-viewer voice mumbles through the walls faintly during a quiet part of your nature documentary. Apparently Frisk needed to call their datemate to complain about Sans some more.

Everything’s normal.

“think i like this outfit,” Sans whispers, then squeezes your hand.

***

The next morning, you wake up tangled in bones and blankets on the couch. You manage to somehow rise from both without too egregious a pratfall, probably because you’d spent Papyrus’s brother-nap the other day (and night) horning in for the fringe benefits. It’s surprisingly early, so you take a shower and do the extended version of getting ready. When you wander back down, you’re very surprised to find Papyrus puttering around the kitchen. You sit at the table underneath his lovely forest-ish bone painting and wait to see if anything happens.

He gives you a sidelong, knowing smile, and prepares coffee for the second morning in a row, sans the convincing this time.

Then he sets a cup in front of you. The milky surface reflects your surprise back at you.

“You can make _normal coffee_?” you choke out in shock.

“SHHH!!!!” Papyrus screams incongruously.

“You’re louder than me,” you protest quietly. Papyrus makes an impatient _of course, obviously_ gesture, then sits down with his own cup in front of him. Oh. Papyrus is loud. Sans is used to it. You are not loud, usually. Sans is also used to that.

“Would you being quiet wake him up?”

“IT’S POSSIBLE,” Papyrus grins, pleased as he takes a sip of his extra-confidential, no-nonsense coffee.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, shuddering. “This is fucking amazing, Paps.” He gets extremely pink about that, downright flustered. Ahhh, this is special. This is how he makes it for himself, and now you’re on cloud nine. Nothing like a shared secret to make you feel special. It’s like he’s giving you a little slice of his awesomeness, a piece that’s not for just anyone.

“It’s Secret Papyrus Recipe coffee!” your emphasis remains quiet.

“DON’T TELL SANS,” he caws in the most hushed tone he can manage. “I DON’T WANT HIM TO--”

“...bro?” comes the slurred voice of a roused Sans. “...everything okay?”

Papyrus’s whole face sags into the same expression he’d made when Sans, asleep, had updogged him a few years back on gyftmas. Because he’s Papyrus, so of course he just did the exact thing he’d mentioned might make his brother wake up. When you start to cover your face to hide impending giggles, he snaps and points an accusatory finger.

“WE HAVE TEN SECONDS!” The light of a battle not quite lost flares in his black sockets. He’s rallying from his defeat. “GO!!!”

You and Papyrus chug in unison. The coffee’s just cool enough not to burn on the way down. It’s even more delicious drinking it as fast as you can, for some reason. Maybe it's a magic reason. He finishes first, but you still make it under the deadline. Barely. The second your empty hits the table, impossibly long phalanges dart out, grab both mugs, and huck them in unison over his shoulder backwards into the trash can.

Sans’s sleepy shuffle around the corner is accompanied by suspiciously narrowed sockets at the thud-clank-tinkle-thump of broken crockery, but only for a moment. He sniffs too, but his brother’s bland innocence is a wall.

“everything okay?” he tries again.

“WE WEREN’T DRINKING ANYTHING,” Papyrus announces proudly. “IN FACT, I’M SO INCREDIBLY BORED I HAVE TO LEAVE IMMEDIATELY!!”

And he does.

Sans shuffles over to the trashcan and looks in.

“think those were actually the last two we had,” he mutters, rubbing his socket. “you, uh. you n ange got any loaners in the meantime?”

“Doesn’t loaners imply I’ll actually get them back at some point?”

He looks up at you, all soft-sleepy innocence. “wait, does it?”

You cover your face and have your giggle after all.

***

You shift a bit under the broad, thick pelvis in your lap, then apologize politely to the human student for not standing and shaking hands and all that. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t been listening to much of what you’ve said, more interested in being distracted by the sleeping skeleton in your lap facing you, heavy skull lolling on your shoulder. It’s fine. You already sent him the salient point in a view-message five minutes ago.

“Okay,” he says bemusedly, standing there as if he abruptly forgot how to leave rooms. “You have a good one.”

“I’ll do my best,” you chuckle, then turn your attention back to work things. He probably leaves. You’re starting to wonder if Papyrus making you coffee three days in a row has something to do with Sans appearing at your work all of those days as well. An apology maybe? Or perhaps just a thank you? You don’t know, but joke’s on him because it’s actually awesome. You don’t know why hanging out with Sans has been so much...more? lately, but it’s a thing that just happens in your relationship. Like cycles where you spend more time apart and it’s fine, or times like now when you’re so into each other it starts to mildly affect others.

Speaking of which.

You look up, and there she is.

“You know you can take time off if you want, riiiiight?" Diane drawls smugly. The last time you and Sans got this way to this degree, you’d ended up traveling. Which had amounted to doing much the same as usual, elsewhere. Apparently this time you’re just going to do the same as usual, in the usual places, just...harder. Better. Faster. _More_.

“Why would I do that when I can multitask?” you shoot back lightly. She laughs, because you kind of. Can’t. You’re pretty bad at it, actually. She looks pointedly at a stack of unsigned papers on your desk. You don’t do anything about it, other than realize you're petting Sans’s spine under his hood like a colicky baby.

“I think maybe you should just take the L can call it a day,” Diane smirks.

An uncontrollable urge, something unspeakable and grotesque, rises up in you.

There is no stopping it.

You take a deep breath.

“EL!! is for the way he looks! At me!” The thing about your singing voice is, the tone might somehow be even worse than Papyrus’s. Sans freezes and wakes with a faint choking noise, and Diane’s features twist into something close to horror. That’s fair, because as unpleasant as your voice is, you inexplicably also have perfect pitch. It’s kind of tragic, really. Your family’s used to it, but you usually don’t just trot that beast out for public viewing.

“Oh! Is for the only ooone, I seeee,” you continue, making an uncomfortable degree of eye contact.

Diane begins to retreat as Sans shivers.

“Vee! Is very, very….

“extra-ordinary,” mumbles Sans’s much more pleasant, if flatter, voice.

“Eee! Is even more!! Than anyone that you adore can...”

She’s already gone, and before much longer, so are you and Sans.

What follows is about twelve days’ worth of whirlwind romance, for no particular reason and without any special sense of urgency, and you don’t exactly _do_ anything special, either. You and Sans just end up infected with the giddy elation of hanging out with each other, intense little conversations peppered in with other people giving you calculatedly tolerant looks as you burble constant playful bullshit at each other and anyone who gets close enough.

Well. Except maybe Papyrus, who can’t really take it and finds a dozen reasons to be elsewhere. And, well. Considering the afternoon you and Sans decided to start screaming “Oh my god, oh shit!! A skeleton!! Oh god, it’s a scary skeleton, run!!” every time he walked into the room for any reason, while lasciviously piled up on one another on the couch and watching literal baby cartoons for children, that was fair.

“You think we crossed a line?” you ask Sans a while later, eyes on whatever vaguely demonic song and dance number is passing for toddler fodder these days. It’s way funnier when you never had one of your own, at least not the way Angie did. She won’t watch these for love nor money because she used to _have_ to.

“probably,” Sans admits.

Something else occurs to you: you’re wearing the gathered-waist outfit you’d bought Sans, and it is…. _really_ tight on you. except for in a few crucial spots. You reach down, and...yep.

“It would seem my entire fucking pubes are out,” you chortle, blushing yet ultimately unrepentant. You live here, after all. Sans lifts up on his arms very suddenly, gasping.

“you sayin’ you stole my sweet lil bro’s innocence!?”

You squawk with surprised delight. He’s been practicing. “DESPOILED!!” you crow in your best Papyrus impression, and as punishment he nibbles your neck for a while.

It’s not all as raucous as that, though.

You have a good day and play him a few songs on the guitar that mostly gathers dust now, and he lies there in bed quietly, eyes soft and fascinated. He asks innocuous questions while you periodically work your clawed fingers back to flexibility. They always end up leading to a story, some about your mom, some about work, your exes, Diane, your sister and the kids, friends you don’t have anymore, or even just situations that had an impact. His patience coaxes them forth gently, and in the end, the thing all your stories have in common is they’re about you. Even a few he already knows get told again, and for some reason they seem….different now.

“well, that’s how people are,” Sans says, skull resting sideways on a sleeve-wrapped hand as he watches you put the guitar away and get changed. “you’re different than you used ta be. so you c’n tell the same story, and it’s different cause you’re different.” His smile looks sleepy, but you know it’s lively. “jus’ wanna know all about you,” he adds, and the double entendre makes your face hot.

You get back in bed, fiddle with your viewer. Sans watches you instead of reading or going to sleep, although when you ask if he wants to watch a show he shakes his head. You start organizing some of the music you have on here for both of you, and you notice how you have some you’d think Sans would like, but…

A while back, Papyrus had taken you, Sans, and Frisk along for Sariel’s first car ride, and the brothers had had a strange exchange that resulted in Papyrus switching to a different song. You’d been surprised, meant to ask him about it later, and then completely forgotten about it until now. And then it happened again with the Grillby “limited mix” Rainy Day Playlist.

“Why don’t you listen to ‘This Charming Man’? I like that song...but it’s okay if you don’t,” you shrug like it’s no Big Deal. But you know Sans, and you can smell a Deal a mile away, size diagnosis still pending.

“oh, man.” Sans lets out a huff of wry amusement and pulls his hands down his face with a rasp. “you sure you wanna know? it’s, um. human stuff.”

Welp. A loaded topic, for sure, but… “I want to hear whatever you want to tell me about,” you assure him.

“no big thing, really,” Sans demurs, blushing. Medium Deal, you privately predict. “just...some guy had that tattooed on him once. can’t hear it without thinkin’ a that now, y’know?” Oh, geez. Someone Sans had had sex with during his time of what he calls “messing himself up” with humans (by having sex with them in various unsafe ways) had had a Smiths tattoo or something.

“And that ruined the song for you? Shit, I’m sorry...”

Sans is shaking his skull, does a little handwave. “nah, nothin’...it wasn’t...” He grunts. “not all of it was...but _i_ was…” His eyes go unfocused as he trails off into an exhale. Phalanges rasp over his face, but when he turns to you to start over, his smile’s unexpectedly soft.

“k. so. got word some human was pulling scams ta get more monster food than humans’re supposed to. i looked into it, an’ he was. had to see if he was sellin’ it to people or figure out a way to replicate it…but from what i could tell, it seemed like he was jus’ eating it himself. so i went to talk with him, and he was.”

He turns to you with a grin, starts snickering. “turned out he had a real sweet tooth, said he couldn’t get over how monster sweets didn’t make ‘im fat. he didn’t wanna be, so he started forging reqs like he didn’t get what he already got; sand n other shit like that. wasn’t even monster candy. it’s too expensive.”

“It didn’t bother you that he was reaping the sweet rewards of criiiime?”

Sans chuckles, grins up at the ceiling with his forearms balanced on his broad frontal bone.

“nah. that kinda shit never bothered me.” He glaces over at you, a brief flash of yellow-cyan dancing over his zygoma. “i, uh. thought it was kinda cute, actually. he didn’t mean anyone any harm, and he knew monsters had plenty. he was jus’ a lil guy, too…had a cat and all these...plants? and those tattoo marks all over both arms, other places. we got to talking. all he wanted was to eat his sweets n watch his stories, minded his own business.”

Sans sighs, sobers a little.

“back then i’d ask anyone, but i liked him jus’ fine.” You suppress a smirk because you know your Sans euphemisms by now; someone Sans ‘likes just fine’ is someone he’s _attracted_ to. “i asked him if he wanted me to-” Sans absently waggles a loose fist, “-and he said yeah, he was into it. didn’t seem freaked out by, uh-” Sans makes a gesture that seems to indicate his own body in general, “-either. so, y’know. then i open up his clothes, and...” Sans shuts his sockets, laughs at the memory of his own surprise. “right over his business in these big curly letters, it says _this charming man_.”

“Oh, like one of those text-arch belly tattoos?”

“nope,” Sans snickers, “... _lower_. he had all the fuzz taken off jus’ so’s you could see it. it was like-” Sans’s fingers form a half-circle in the air, and his other hand clasps an imaginary penis just below it in the arch.

“Waowwww,” you chortle, impressed. “So his _donger_ was the charming man?”

“yup,” Sans confirms, laughing although his eye lights are small and opaque. “i made some jokes bout that too, n he got tickled real pink by it.”

“Did something bother you about it?”

Sans’s eyes read his thoughts off the blank ceiling for a minute.

“not...in the usual way,” he says after a while, surprising you. He looks at you sidelong, grin sober and patient. “it was like...y’know how a lotta humans don’t talk or anything when they do stuff? don’t even look at ya, sometimes.”

“Yep.” You give him a commiserating grin, but he still blushes and looks back at the ceiling.

“he wasn’t like that. he, uh...” Sans makes his dry skeleton throat-clearing noise, then shrugs. “…asked me stuff. showed me...stuff. he was nice about it, an’ he didn’t have to be.”

You eyeball Sans carefully; said nice things about _Sans_ , probably. Might even have touched him in ways he liked, too, if Sans’s impending sweatiness is any indicator.

“knocked me off my game, and i left once he was...done.” He sighs with some oomph behind it. “wasn’t til way later it occurred to me maybe he thought he _had_ to do that. cause a why i was there.”

Your eyebrows fly up. “Oh. Did it seem like that?”

“no,” he says shortly. “but i was wrong about a lotta shit back then. i went back eventually, asked him if he thought he had ta let me do that to keep from getting in trouble. he said no, he could tell i just liked him. he said thank you, too.”

“For a handjob?” you ask, bemused. Sans turns and looks at you.

“no,” he explains carefully, “for not taking away the sweets.”

You snort in surprise. “You actually let him have a dispensation?”

“no, ‘course not. i let him keep forging the reqs to get double.” Sans grins. “that was half the fun.”

You share his laughter, because even though it’s a little surprising, it’s pretty on brand for Sans.

“Did you give him a repeat?”

“nah,” Sans says quietly. “actually...now i think on it, someone else was living there too when i checked. mighta been like how humans are around here mostly, only do that sorta thing with the same person for a while.”

You think about that for a second. “Checked how?”

Magic mists up on Sans’s forehead and cheekbones to be ignored. “checked in on him a few times.”

“Sans.”

You wait until he looks at you again.

“Were you sweet on him?” you ask very gently.

He’s still iridescent, but his expression’s calm when he reaches out to stroke your arm briefly with his smooth bone hand.

“no, i wasn’t. it wasn’t….personal. but it wasn’t the other thing either, and i didn’t...know what it meant.”

“Not...souls?”

He shakes his skull quickly. You think about how Sans communicates.

“What was it...like?” you ask slowly, and watch his expression change. It’s something….huh. A little embarrassed, maybe.

“like doggo,” he whispers tersely. Oh, whoa. Now that he really doesn’t talk about. It was a long time ago, and you’ve gotten a pretty strong impression that he was Sans’s first little...boyfriend? Dogfriend? Whatever; but he’d definitely been an adult, and had been for quite some time beforehand, too. They both were, but monsters do things at their own pace.

“Casual?” you try, and magic seethes in his face.

“lately i’ve been thinking doggo liked me more than i thought at the time,” he says quietly. He doesn’t say why. “even though a few people said i broke his heart. guess it was….” He sighs heavily enough to worry you, then clears the shadow from his brow with a socket-rub and a weak smile. “guess i did, though i didn’t think so at the time. he broke mine right back, so. no hard feelings.”

“That’s a very Sans way to look at it,” you comment fondly.

“there was a thing you said once about it, that...it was, uh. sex.” He fiddles with the blanket a bit. “i decided you were right.”

Well. That’s not precisely what you said. You said a human would usually consider what he and Doggo had done together ‘sex’, not that _he_ should.

“I know it’s different with monsters,” you say slowly, “but it really is up to you to decide what your own experiences are.” It’s different, and not just when it comes to sex acts. Sans describes relationships as _like_ others, because monsters all know each other. Relationships are always _specific_ when it comes to honest, direct communication; me-and-him, you-and-her, me-and-you.

Sans doesn’t really understand the general terms you use for things, not intuitively at least. Even words like ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ were inherently temporary. Because monsters had too much time on their hands and everywhere else, and so they had every possible relationship they has as an option...with everyone they could. Friends, lovers, neighbors, enemies, partners, even some complex playacting you’re discovering is basically monster kink stuff.

“You’re the boss of your own life,” you add. “It’s _your_ story.”

“reminds me of what alphie says,” Sans murmurs. He glances at you surreptitiously. “yeah. she feels like that sometimes. jus wants, uh.” He pauses, shakes his head when you tell him he doesn’t have to tell you.

“she wouldn’t mind. after some stuff happened with her, she used ta go to grillby’s a lot. before grillby moved ta snowdin. asked people for...touching.”

Some stuff, huh. Well. Alphys just kind of doesn’t have a family, other than the one you know already (and are part of). You might not know everything about monsters, but you know enough not to ask about it. You’re pretty sure it’s polite to wait until someone else decides what Sans just decided about this, and tells you about Alphys’s past that way.

“’f you act a certain way about it, no one says anything. but she, uh. she didn’t mince words cause she was sad an’ didn’t care.” His face gets hard. “’s why people shouldn’t tell tales about it. for anyone. cause everybody has their reasons, even aaron, though in his case it’s just cause he likes it. he’s allowed ta like it. not just…certain people, not just….special reasons.”

“It surprises me how they say that stuff,” you say; something you’ve thought but never actually said to him before, since monster gossip’s a touchy subject. “Monsters are usually so careful with people’s feelings, but...”

He sighs big and hearty. “they don’ mean to hurt feelings,” he allows grudgingly. “they’re jus’...bored n sad. people actin’ out of order’s interesting, and to them they’re not bothering anyone. and it _doesn’t_ bother a lotta folks; aaron doesn’t care, but some people do.” Like Sans. And apparently, Alphys. You always saw why they get along, but you know it’s something deeper, too. You’re getting more glimpses of why they’re so close.

“Did you tell Alphys about the Charming Man?”

Sans huffs wryly. Ahh. Because now you’re not going to be able to hear that song without thinking about that story, either. You don’t mind though. It’s actually kind of cute.

“’m not sure,” he says, surprising you. “it’s just cause me n al get to talking, and...we’re busy. it’s like….” he frowns. “like the engines are all caught up in the numbers, and all the stuff that just sort of lies around on the floor in my skull gets stirred up like the trash tornado. comes out without...thinking about it.”

“So you talk about stuff that bothers you without worrying?”

“mighta bothered me less if i never knew him,” he whispers. “cause it’s easier...”

“When you feel like you know the deal, even when it sucks?”

“maybe.” He takes a big breath, lets it out. “but if it wasn’t for that? i might not have known i…liked you. for real.”

You smile. “Liked me just fine?”

He darts a suspicious look at you, and you keep your bigger smile inside. Then you turn into a cuddle-snake and start wiggling towards him on your belly.

“uh oh,” Sans drawls in delight. “seems we got an infestation a cuddle snakes.”

That’s too cute, so you stoop to crawling on all fours to commence the cuddling immediate-style. Sans wiggles in your arms like a happy puppy, and it’s remarkable how much he just...loves to be touched, considering how standoffish he’d been about it when you’d first met. Then again, people being weird about something usually is an indicator they have some kind of strong feelings about it, one way or the other. Sometimes both, or even more than that.

“what’s got that meat brain a yours goin’ now?”

You grin down at him, then use both thumbs over his sockets to smooth out an impending crease.

“I’m deciding where your eyebrows would go if you had them.” _He’s_ tickled pink by that, although in his case, it’s actually kind of yellow-cyan.

You gasp.

“Sans.”

“hmm?”

“I’m gonna _give_ you eyebrows.”

He’s already giggling.

Half an hour later, he’s inspecting your handiwork in the bathroom mirror.

“seems i love it,” he says in his you-voice-impression. “s’tragic, really.” That makes sense, since to say he looks like a clown would be an insult to clowns everywhere. They are professionals and work very hard. Nay, Sans resembles nothing so much as a crayon drawing of a clown.

With eyebrows.

“You’re hot as heck,” you pronounce, swooping in to give him behind-hugs. Then you kiss the side of his becrayonéd skull.

“mm. i got sexy news, n bad news. you c’n pick, but i gotta admit they’re the same thing.”

“Lay it on me, skeletor.”

“’m gonna do you now,” he grins.

“Uh.” Uh. “…Why?”

“you gotta,” he says, arching his new eyebrows triumphantly.

You sit on the toilet for about forty-five minutes. He croons Dog gossip, a few snippets of songs, and patented Sansy-brand corndog bullhockey while does ticklish shit to your face. You tell him he really missed his calling as a hairdresser; he tells you Nattie already has the market cornered for family hairdressing. Then you stand and go over to the mirror, eyes widening as you lean in to try and see what, exactly, he did.

It is absolutely nothing like what you were expecting.

Sans somehow enhanced all of your features without making them look especially...different. It’s subtle, and...counterintuitive. Things you usually think of as flaws are also enhanced….and somehow made appealing. Your face is making a solid argument for itself. It’s….as if he made you actually look how _he_ sees you or something. Or did things that make you able to see...what he...

“oh...babe, don’t...” He pats at you, because you’re tearing up. “we c’n wash it off,” he says, but you shake your head hard like a cow about to sneeze and sit down heavily on the side of the tub.

“I love it,” you whisper tightly. “You’re a makeup wizard.”

“didn’t mean to make you cry,” he protests weakly, using his dainty little fingertips to collect your tears without spoiling the cosmetics. Then he wipes them on your shirt, because it’s Sans.

“For someone who leaks whenever you feel a big feeling, you sure don’t get it when I do it,” you point out, because it makes you more able to suck the tears back into their tear-holes.

“s’different.” It’s not different.

“It’s not different,” you say.

He sighs. “okay. you want me to wash it?”

“I feel like I made it clear I like it,” you say dryly. “Now you have to live with the consequences. Take me somewhere private and give me all of the cuddles.”

“i’m, uh. gonna wash mine,” he snickers. You wait for him, then leave yours and head back to bed to claim your prize.

Somehow every cuddle is better than the last, yet all of them are equally delicious. This one ends up also under the clothes, gets a little visceral, maybe. Sans wraps his legs around you, squeezes you with a satisfied little catch in his exhale. Later you have to pause for a long, limp minute, limbs weakened by the devastating cuteness of surprised in-and-out whuffling that was the result of kissing him right at the little notch at the bottom of his nasal cavity.

“you okay?” he giggles softly, little claw-scritches with his smooth fingerpoints around your mid-back.

“Fine,” you mumble into the pillow as you smush the shit out of him. “Just dead from how cute you are.”

“ohhh, guess ‘m gonna hafta write a eulogy for both of us,” he wheezes mournfully under your weight. You miraculously recover so you can grope his ribs, make him hum and wiggle by rubbing your thumb on the spots where the floating ribs fuse to the ones above. After a bit he touches your elbow, suggesting you might also cuddle the inside of his body. You’re into it, and your fingertip brushes his spine from the inside.

He twitches and grunts, and you pull away quickly. But Sans is grinning. “doesn’t hurt. just, uh. tickles, i guess? when ‘m not all worked up.” His grin softens. “not as light, maybe?” You push your fingers through the spaces, and just kind of….hold his spine. He inhales big, savors the sensation of your fingers in there when he moves to expand his chest a little.

“s’nice,” Sans decides, and lets out a big sigh as his sockets close. “...mmn.” You spend a while like that, just holding him inside and thumbing his spine now and then, his fingertips massaging deep in your hair against your scalp, all over. It’s his secret weapon for unwinding your shoulder tension when they’re too sore to touch directly, or when you’re just not in the right position for it.

He cracks a socket open, the point inside soft and fuzzy, when you do a little swallow that means you have feelings. He doesn’t even really have to say anything.

“I missed you,” you admit, heart achy-soothed.

“me too.” One socket cracks open, and his white eye inside is broad and soft. “you want me to touch you?” He’s already touching you; he’s asking because he means a handjob. You think about it for quite a while. Sans just lies there and lets his socket close again, smiling and enjoying the inside-hug.

“No,” you pronounce eventually. “I like how we are now.”

“okay.”

The cuddling and kissing slowly changes shape to winding down at a natural pace. It’s not particularly late, but you can tell he’s getting ready to hit the hay. You run a finger around the space between your bodies, the one you make by being together like this.

“It’s like a cat shape,” you murmur, finally getting sleepy too. “A cat would fit right here.”

“you talk bout that a lot, huh?” he says hesitantly, and you blush hard. “you wanna get a cat, darlin’?” And now your face is on fire.

“Uh...”

“s’okay,” he murmurs, then crawls up onto you and appropriates your hands to rub on his face some more. Like a cat. “it’s okay to take your time thinking about important stuff.”

And your heart melts because he thinks that’s _important_. Because of course he would. Holy crap, you love him.

“jus’ saying that i think you’d be good at it,” and yep. Who the fuck even says “you’d be good at having a cat” instead of stuff like “it would be good for your emotions to have a pet,” or “cats are cute” or something like that? Sans has always had his ways of seeing to the core and just fucking dismantling you. Because that’s always been the catch. You worry you’d be bad at taking care of a cat, and that’s what’s kept you from it for years. That you’re gone too much, or that you don’t pay enough attention. Weird nonsense fears that you’d get in the zone and 12 hours later you’d find a cat skeleton somehow, and not the alive kind. But your considerations are the exact same they were years ago, and you haven’t updated for new information yet. You’re a lot less solitary than you used to be.

“I’d have to think about it for a _really_ long time,” you demur.

“that’s okay.” His broad chin rests on your chest, his face inches from yours. “me too.”

“Are you saying you would help?” you whisper, mouth a little dry.

“uh…sure? but uh. not...how you’re saying.” He exhales, making you blink at the puff of air. “you always do the same things at the same time,” he says slowly. “i know you’d remember to do that stuff. you’re like paps that way. i’d...help, but...in a different way?”

“Oh, yeah? Help how?” He looks unusually sober for a long, fraught moment.

“i make a real good cat bed,” he says, and that’s it. You lose it. You take your time giggling yourselves and each other to sleep.

And you wake up in the morning with a massive zit on your chin, because of course you forgot to wash off the makeup.


	8. a tender uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes courage to enjoy it!  
> The hardcore and the gentle,  
> Big time sensuality
> 
> Bjork – Big Time Sensuality  
> https://youtu.be/wHuXpWSNa-8
> 
> Sans and Reader have some good food, bad laughs, and discover nice ways to help each other be brave

“mm….whaddawe got here…?”

The light of the open fridge gilds Sans’s cute, crafty expression as you both lean in. He’s peering at the contents; you can’t help but sneak in a covert little glimpse of how precious he is at moments like these. It’s a still-vaguely-light summer nighttime. Everything’s quiet and still, lights off for ambience because Angie and the kids are off visiting the kids’ dad, and it honestly feels like a holiday in the middle of summer downtime. Sneaky and nostalgic, doing a whole lot of nothing at the perfect time for it.

This is one of _your_ favorite pastimes; a fridge full of food that can be eaten standing up, enjoying the cool refrigerator breeze on a warm-but-not-sweltering night.

Butt ass naked.

“you want some a these thingies?” Sans rumbles, offering you a package of white slices he often resorts to when eating feels like a chore for him.

“Are they good?”

“no,” he answers sweetly, still waiting for your exasperated headshake before putting them back. Everything seems moderately appealing, but nothing really grabs you with that visceral _yes_. Sans seems pleased as pie to keep offering, although you give him a buttface when he comes up with new pitches for repeats.

“hmmm...” he picks up a jar of Toriel’s sour jam, then starts loading the crook of his arm with stuff. “how bout we jus’ eat em in bed?” he suggests, waggling his eyebrows at you. And yeah, you’ve been standing here bullshitting and being picky long enough to sate your breeze cravings. You giggle and nod, then grab the slices after all. Can’t hurt to give them a try.

Once you head back upstairs, you deposit your bounty in the bed ocean of rumpled blankets, then wander around peering at the floor.

“drop somethin’?”

“I’m getting dressed,” you pronounce primly.

“why?”

“So I don’t get crumbs in my creases,” you reply, giving him a mock-impatient look. He shrugs, then starts looking around for his own shorts and shirt.

“I mean. It just kind of falls _through_ your body,” you point out.

“hey now. you saying i can’t join the crumb-catcher clothes club? you doing an _exclusionary_ on me?” It’s hard not to grin at his shameless, listing-sockets grin-pout thing. Especially when he only bends over and shows you his pelvic outlet in all its glory once he knows you saw the pout first.

“Well. We _do_ have very high standards, but...” you eye him up and down, then bite your lip dramatically. “Ohhh. It turns out you meet them.” He lies down on the floor and lifts his butt to pull his shorts back on, wriggles into his shirt. To your surprise, he promptly gets up again without his usual union-mandated rest period that kicks in whenever he lies down for any reason. You have a lovely time feeding each other in bed, and apparently you like the slice thingies more than he does. Kind of like crumbly-pressed cheese, but not as salty.

Over time you’ve gleaned that this is...well. Not exactly ‘something lovers do’, because monsters are weird at conceptualizing that, but something that people who are sharing souls are generally expected to do...when they do. Something to do with the expenditure of magic from shedding, and the (you think) slightly higher energy cost of pushing it out for sex reasons.

All of it’s monster food, so you keep on eating until Sans gets bored with it...which actually takes quite a while this way. Eating in bed’s almost a kink for him, especially when you’re the one feeding him. He finishes off the jam completely, then puts what’s left of your depleted feast in his phone instead of returning to the fridge.

You lie there, not in the mood to do anything in particular. You don’t really want to watch anything, or have to...pay attention to something. Don’t want to read. Definitely don’t want to work on work things or not-exactly-work things. So you move your legs around a bunch instead. Sans, of course, is happy just lying there. And you’re not unhappy, either.

A wisp of air from outside touches you, and you can smell the difference between that and the slightly close air in the house. Cooler, spiced with an almost-smoky tang and dense with an undercurrent of green plants. You move your legs around some more; you’re not hurting tonight, so you try and make a little ‘zero’ out of blankets with your feet. Blanket sculpture!

Then you sigh, let your legs flop back out hard enough to shake the bed. Feet capable of creative feats have now become instruments of destruction.

“what is it?”

You blow a long raspberry at the ceiling. “I’m not tired.”

“that so. you hungry yet?”

You snort and play-swat at him. “No.”

“mm.” He grins at you. “thirsty?”

“No,” you pout.

“horny?”

“No!” You grab his hand and pretend to bite it, run clacky nibbles all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

“ohh, we got a fibber, huh? toldja you were _hon_ gry.”

You shake your head adamantly.

“whatcha want, sunshine? world’s your oyster.”

“I don’t want any oysters.” You frown. “I might want to go swimming, though.”

“then let’s go.”

You frown at him. “Doesn’t the ocean get like, weird jellyfish in it at night or something?”

Sans doesn’t try very hard to restrain his this-is-hilarious expression.

“got weird jellyfish in there all the time, darlin’,” he says, light words wiggling with mirth. “they, uh. can’t really live anywhere else.”

“You’re the meanest skeleton in the _whole world_ ,” you pronounce, heartbroken, passing your unshakeable condemnation upon the Judge himself. The Judge can no longer hold in his amusement, tries to gather you in his arms and starts giggling when you roll in ineffective evasion.

“ohhh, i knowww….i _know_ i am….” he croons mercilessly, rubbing your back and trying to hold you as you roll in place and pout some more. “’m _unspeakably_ cruel. what’s my punishment?”

“You have to love me forever.”

“…oof. been too late on that for a while now.”

You turn the tables and snatch him right up into a very expected hug.

“Mmnnn,” you hum into his neckbones. “Sucks to be you.”

“that a vampire joke?”

You nibble-clack his cervical vertebrae in a spot you know tickles. “Hey, you have blood!? You’ve been holding out on me….” Then you remember he doesn’t like blood, even though he’s the one who brought up vampires. “I bet I can find some better juices to suck around here somewhere….”

You whuffle at his complicated body, narrating your search for human parts that are nowhere in evidence. He snorts and wiggles in entertainment as you further rumple his clothes, failing to find his meniscus, intestines, and his inexplicably perennial favorite: the elusive and wily _pancreas_. His delight in being entertained is endlessly entertaining for _you_ , but at some point he sandwiches your face in his bone hands and squishes your cheeks.

“we could go swimming in a pool,” he suggests, then plays with your lips to interrupts your words with “pblblp” sounds.

“You know someone with a pool?” you (probably) ask.

“nope. jus’ know a pool.”

“Sans.”

“yeah babe.”

“Are you propositioning that we _sneak_ into a pool and secretly _swim_ in it? Some random _person’s_ pool?”

“yeah.”

“You want to do _pool thievery_ with me?” A nod. “Are you willing to accept the consequences of such a risky heist?”

“not gonna be much risk if ya follow my lead.” He winks.

“You promise?”

He laughs at you. “course not. but i uh, i think it’s gonna go off without a hitch. i jus’-”

You’re already groaning.

“-feel it in my _bones_ ,” he finishes sibilantly, then slaps your ass and hugs you down against him. “you ready for some hardcore inaction?”

“Uh. Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” He’s giggling again as you shut your eyes, and you feel a familiar lurch.

Cold water slaps every inch of you below the neck simultaneously, pressing right between the weave of your clothes.

“BWACK!!”

An echo off unseen surfaces throws your undignified screech right back to you, then once more for posterity. Sans lets out a weird, impressed-sounding whoop, bites it off and covers _your_ mouth, grabs you and starts slosh-slumping you heavily towards the edge of what appears to be a large swimming pool in someone’s back yard. “sh...sh-sh,” Sans hiccups in the middle of shushing, shaking with barely suppressed hilarity. “oh my sh- _shit_ and whiskers...”

“It’s fucking _cold_!” It’s an outraged yell-whisper around his stupid skeleton fingers, punctuated with a well-timed shiver. “Why did you put us right _in_ here?”

“n-never heard anyone make a sound like that in m’ _life…!_ ” Sans wheezes out between strangled spasms of laughter. You pull his hand down, wondering why you taste salt before remembering that’s how most pools do the thing nowadays. Sans literally goes limp with laughter, yukking it up so hard he rests his forehead against your shoulder and rolls it around a little.

“I’m going to have to swim around to warm up now,” you grouse. Quietly.

Sans wipes his sockets on his shirt collar, a little awkward with the water soaking and tugging it. It’s also almost up to his chin, and this isn’t the deep end. “hoo…well. didn’t you say that’s what you wanted to do?” He cocks his skull at you, then looks around as you shiver again. “i mean… s’only bout, uhhh, 25 degrees below where you are,” he adds musingly. He means your body temperature. “is it really cold? you want me to-”

“No, it’s, um.” You blush a little. “It feels colder when it’s sudden. I have to get used to it.”

“okay,” he agrees mildly, then moves his limbs around aimlessly before glancing at you again. “something wrong?”

You finally look around, since your eyes have adjusted to the darkness. And it _is_ dark, only moon and stars to aid the distant light of the night sky in a populated area. It’s someone’s mysterious backyard. While there aren’t any trees over the pool, there’s a bunch of plants and stuff that make it feel very secluded.

“You’re too smart to do this when the people who live in there are _home_ , riiiight?”

He does his low little _hee hee_ noise. “...nah. but they’re not.”

“But...other people are going to wonder what’s going on if they hear us...”

“give it a minute,” Sans says, hunching down in the water, grinning and looking up at the sky mischievously. You follow his gaze, but instead of seeing anything…

Oh.

A few houses over starts blaring thumpa-thumpa club music. It’s the kind that doesn’t even have vocals, just dudda-dudda-dudda and wheedle-deedle noises.

“see? no one’s gonna hear us, s’long’s were quieter than _bwack_ ,” he snickers, then grunts when you splash him.

“Sans, have you _done_ this before?”

He just shrugs, because he’s a shit that way. You love him. Turns out Sans can’t really stand stable in the pool like you can, because he doesn’t have skin. His weird little skeleton toes just skitter around on the bottom without gaining much purchase at all.

“Are you okay in here?” you ask, and he darts you a Look. It is not unfond, but you blush anyways because he can shortcut literally anywhere and also doesn’t need to breathe.

“think i’ll manage,” he says lightly, then...oh. Wow. He starts pushing around under the surface like he’s trying to tamp down a mound of sand with all four limbs at once. He is apparently...not very buoyant, and his skull stays quite low in the water. Eventually he gains some kind of momentum from his unprecedented movements, and manages a foot or two of horizontal progress. Or maybe that’s just backwash from you deciding to swim past him.

“you’re going to end up with a skull full of water,” you caution, grinning helplessly.

“eh,” he paddles and grunts, swimming with maximum limb-piston effort like a weird, tiny pony. “i got you ta drain me, remember? like a puh-, pool vampire...”

“Oh my god, Sans...” you snicker huskily. “You are the least efficient swimmer I have ever seen.”

“you seen me swim before,” he protests instead of arguing with that assessment. He finally makes it to the lip of the pool beside you, and struggles up to lean on his elbows behind him with a gritty scrape that makes you wince.

“Is that comfortable?”

“you know it, darlin’.” He winks. “’m _unspeakably_ cool.”

“You’re an unspeakable _fool_ ,” you insist, then dart over and fondle the back of his pelvis to see if he’ll make that one noise. He does. It’s a weird one, almost like a startled buzz. “Also, I have _not_ seen you swim before. I’ve seen Papyrus swim while carrying you like a bag of hair.”

“you tryin’ ta say it doesn’t count?” He tsks and shakes his skull. “that’s like trying to say i didn’t take a walk if paps carries me.”

“It doesn’t!” You push off and swirl around him.

“whaaaat?” He lets the water lap at his chin as his grin sidles towards shiteating, feet skittering at the bottom as the wake of your passage sloshes him around. “that’s like saying I didn’t get the groceries if you paid for em.” He starts thrashing his limbs around once more to achieve something resembling locomotion, then pinches your butt to make you squeak as he “swims” egregiously past you. He finds the edge again a few feet away, then grips the lip and turns to look over his shoulder at you. That startling kissy-noise he makes in his skull actually makes a faint echo, and he giggles shamelessly in the face of your outrage towards his hypocritical loudness.

“s’fine,” he giggles. “’m sharing the risk for this pool heist, remember? an’ i already know ‘m not about to wake up any babies after we snuck in the _bwack_ entrance.”

“What is _with_ you tonight,” you muse, secretly enjoying it. “You’ve really got my number.”

His shrug’s light as a cloud. “hey, ’s only fair. you’ve had my number for a few years, now…message me every day, too. ‘m starting to think you might have a crush on me or something.”

You do a slow, exaggerated gasp of horror/surprise that gets loud enough for him to shush you before your lungs explode.

“I’ll crush you, alright,” you threaten emptily as you ‘catch’ him again. Sans pushes away from the side of the pool but only turns in the water, then reverses his hold on the rim with elbows out before he sinks. His chest arches and swells, water making his shirt heavy enough to outline the ribs as he rises up; the silvery light catches wavy flashes of white under the water where his feet brace against the side. He sinks down and blows air through his teeth, making bubbles in the water...but you think he’s doing a little shiver in there, too.

“Now you look like you’ve got a skull full of bad ideas,” you drawl playfully.

His sleepy smile jabs you right in the heart, but the wink’s the real haymaker as he bobs up and forcefully huffs water that got in somewhere back out.

“heh. more like a shorts full a boners.”

“O-oh...” It’s, uh. Oh.

Sans is _flirting_ , isn’t he. He shakes his skull, winky socket still shut like it got tired and just stayed there.

“i jus’ like you, is all. nothin’ bad.” The smile sharpens, as does his eye light on your expression. Then it takes slow, suggestive trip up and down. “oh…. _i_ get it. you wanna get them meaty paws on me, huh?” You immediately very much can’t think of anything else _except_ Sans sighing and wiggling in your arms, but can’t help glancing around.

“Just... _here_?”

He shrugs, grunt-paddles over and wraps his drippy arms around your shoulders, squeezes your side-butt with his knees to stay buoyant. He leans in, whuffles wet-cool, then push-hot teeth against your neck skin. You shudder hard at the delicious temperature difference, makes you want to feel him do the same.

“world’s your oyster,” he rumbles, and whatever half-baked objection your frontal lobes tried to supply crumbles as that growly tone raises gooseflesh. You hug him close, then turn so you can lean him against the concrete side of the pool. He accepts kisses and groping with pleased hums, but your continuing hesitance leads to him tilting his skull to peer at your face, then guiding your hand to the front of his shorts with a sweet, encouraging smile.

“hmm...” He shivers as your fingers brush the base of a rigid length under the cloth, the wavering of the water wicking its warmth in a temperate halo around his junk. His fingers close over yours in a gentle massaging motion towards the tip as he draws back. Birdlike, he tilts his skull the other way as he relaxes your fingers, pushes back in and just holds there. You can feel how eager he is, the heat of his genitalia increasing where it’s wrapped in fabric, pressed around by your hand and patient phalanges, layers like a flower’s stamen wrapped in protective petals of fingers. “that okay?”

His solicitousness after all the teasing makes your face hot for some reason. Sans lifts his chin to give a challenging look instead, takes his hand away. He shifts his pelvis until he can poke your hip with the tip of it like a big finger, and he makes one of his subpar dry skeleton fart noises for sauce. You snort and lean in to kiss him as your hand escapes his. His giggle changes to a gratified gasp when your hand snakes up his floating shorts leg instead, bare skin teasing at his reconfigured magic. Your hesitance disappears quickly, and now you’re all caught up in Sans’s responses, which are everything you’d fantasized about and more. Already seems like being quiet’s getting difficult for him. Nice.

“You have a thing for swimming pools?” you murmur, tracing your nose along his wet cheekbone.

“...dunno. never did it like this,” Sans sighs, shivering fit to shatter the moonlight into glitter on the surface of the water. It’s so pretty here, even with the wheedle-deedle music. Every once in a while you hear wind hiss through the trees overhead, but they do a good job sheltering you under them. “in…this kinda...pool.” The setting silvers his lovely bones, saps his iridescent blush to silky monochrome. His breath catches, white eyes quivering as you rub over the tip with your thumb. It makes you smile, lean in and tease his pool-salty vertebrae with your tongue before pulling back to enjoy his sloppy expression some more.

“And how is it?”

He breathes in deep, takes his time blinking his sockets. His eyes are broader when he opens them again.

“ticklish,” he says quietly, then colorless-silvery iridescence slides across his face. “...s’nice.” Sans holds on with his legs and braces his back against the rim, sneaks his hands inside your wet shirt. He rucks it up, hugs you closer with arms inside it instead. When his chest presses against you, you feel a wild-calm thrumming you haven’t in a while.

“i wanna come out,” he confesses breathily. “yeah?”

“Yeah,” you growl, surprised at his outdoorsy boldness, and also super into it. He doesn’t free his hands like you expected; if anything he just holds you tighter while he rubs his ribs on you. He moans quietly as you move together, and you realize he _is_ calling himself. Wow. No hands.

Sans lets out a cracked sigh as the pale glow of his essential self manifests somewhere inside his ribcage. It stays there, subtle and harmonizing with the moon’s splintered reflection. His wet shirt shades his secret light like a fluttering paper lantern, the shadows of his ribs cast from inside. You can feel in his body how it changes this for him, makes him feel it…. _more_. Because it’s inside his body, so he’s touching himself. More in tune with what he wants, and with receiving it.

“ohh….” he breathes, face softening as he lets his sockets close, neck wilting until his skull rests in the bend of your arm, “ohh, babe…. _yeah_...” The concrete’s bothering your elbow with his skull’s weight on it, so you take a few steps back and sink down, just keep him afloat with your arm as his limbs tighten. He might not be the most buoyant, but it’s thrilling to be able to just carry him like this, move together in ways you usually can’t. This was a fantastic idea.

He’s lovely and lithe, light in the dappled water as he starts thrusting gently into your caresses with the lazy enthusiasm you love so much. You follow his lead, let teasing touches grow insistent. Intermittent shudders go through him, each interval a little shorter than the last until he’s panting, brow creasing until it’s a frown. Then he jerks, whimpers a soft curse between his teeth.

“Stop?” He shakes his head quickly.

“n...no, i wanna come,” he manages, anxious voice careful-clear over the now-fainter music and patter of water. “just….it’s gonna make me push.” You pause, but he relaxes once he says it out loud, sockets still closed as he takes a deep breath. “no, i’m okay...” His bones judder with tension, but his skull lolls in your supporting hand as he humps gently into the other. “...’m gonna let it happen.” His hand on yours tells you how: short, grabby little tugs that he thrusts into. “you, you always...” Sans holds his breath, then lets it hiss out through his teeth as the crease reappears between his sockets. “’m close,” he whispers shakily, makes a tight noise like he’s trying not to groan. The water jitters and plashes with movement, and his panting’s ragged as you press your face to his, whisper his name against his hard mouth.

“oh, babe, you’re s-so…. _mmh_ \--” His hand clenches on yours abruptly, harder than you expected but it’s obviously doing it for him. “ _please_ \--” His legs shake as he shoves his whole length desperately into your tightened grip, spine arching as his other arm tightens, too. Sans lets go with a choked noise, and you feel the hard pulse of his climax ignite in the cool water.

He’s all floating cloth and shaking bones in your embrace; a hot, thick stutter rocking in your hand. He tries to stay quiet, breath sobbing jerkily through his teeth. But his face is the best part, the sharp pleasure there softened and deepened by what’s happening in his soul. The part of you that’s vaguely aware of him becomes a warm, messy blot of comfort as he floods into himself. Magic beads up on his skull like pearls of starlight, slides from his sockets and falls in the pool to tremble like iridescent oil. Then the subtle, secret glow inside Sans’s wet shirt fades, and he squeezes and pulses one last time with a shuddering exhale. Then he moves your hand from his junk to his sacrum, pulls you into a hard hug with both arms.

“hey there, beautiful,” he slurs, nuzzling little puffs of his still-passionate breath on your cheek. He doesn’t usually say stuff like that. It makes you blush, but…not in a bad way. In a way that makes you clear your throat. “habout we go home so you c’n have your way w’me?”

“Yep,” you rasp, then glance at the water again. “But, um. I think you got some in the pool.”

Sans huffs in weak amusement, leans back with legs still hugged around you to stay up. His half-mast sockets and sated-hungry grin send a bolt of warmth right to your core. He blushes a little to see himself in the water. Then he curves his hand with the middle finger down a bit, uses it to swirl a complicated pattern on the surface of the pool. His hand changes shape to a cup, and in a movement nearly too rapid for you to follow, skims off every last bit of it in a long curving motion. The second it’s a blob in his palm, he lifts it out and quickly...wipes it casually on your shirt.

Sans appears satisfied, then pats at your shoulder with a sultry smile. “ready?”

“Wow. Seriously?”

“what?”

You give him an exasperated sigh, and a look that means you’ll bring it up later. Then you hug him and shut your eyes.

And he takes a fucking shortcut with both of your soaked selves and clothes right back into the middle of your bed, because of course he does. You’d think you would have learned by now. You have not.

“Shit, Sans!!” you scramble up, put your stiffened hands under his skeleton butt and flap up in a shooing motion. Noticeably unflapped, he still takes the hint and gets out to stand next to the bed. “I swear you’re pranking the fucking _balls_ off me tonight,” you grumble, stripping the bed with efficiency borne of practice.

“you could jus’ leave it,” he says for the thousandth time, scratching his pelvis as you go out to get more linens.

“I have a meat body!” you project absently from the bathroom as you plop the wet bedding (and your clothes for good measure) on the floor to deal with tomorrow. “If I sleep without a sheet, it makes the mattress all…bacterial.” You take a leak since you’re already there, wash your hands, then gather up the new stuff and head back.

Only to stop in the doorway of the bedroom, because Sans is all laid out like a semi-moist treat in the middle of the bed. He’s giving you that hooded gaze he knows drives you nuts, knees up and open, idly fingering his shirtless ribcage. On your bare mattress. In just his pool-water-soaked shorts, with a big ol tent wobbling in the front.

“c’monnnn,” he taunts breathily. His other hand touches his knee, pulls the hem over it and lets the shorts-leg slide all the way down to his crotch, baring a femur. He rasps it invitingly, and your mouth waters at the sound of bone against bone. “might be kinda kinky. bare mattress, one night only...”

You cave immediately (and internally). Externally, you saunter over and start deliberately strewing sheets and blankets and shit all around him like decorations. You let a tiny smile play at your mouth, and he’s obviously riveted. Well, you _are_ naked. And _doing_ something, although what exactly is unclear to both of you. It’s probably romantic, though.

Inspiration strikes as you shiver, and you lay a blanket on him, wrap one around you, and crawl into the bed to have an awkward, deliciously tactile, and mutual gropefest with a bunch of loose blankets all over the place. The pool _had_ been a bit cold, especially after giving only your arm a workout while letting the water leach your body heat, but this is getting the blood moving again nicely.

“fuck,” he breathes, bone hands on your ass following you when you pull back to let him shiver. “could be after the pool’s even better than the pool,” he rambles, squeezing your butt and stroking your thighs and belly. You go for a little fingerwalk down his spine, stopping off at your favorite roadside attractions one by one. “specially when i got you to warm me right up,” he says, then grunts as you reach his waistband/sacrum. He lets you explore his ilia, but touches your hand, looks to the side when you go for the front of his pelvis.

“Something else?”

He shakes his head. “only… it’s a different one now,” he admits bashfully.

Ahh. His skeleton business must have gone back in during the bed change shenanigans...which may have been why he didn’t want to wait. If he was warming _that_ back up on his own, it adds context to the way you’d found him upon your return. Hot.

“That’s okay,” you assure him, because it is. “Can I see?”

He seems reassured by your expression. “yeah.” He lets the bashfulness go completely as you unwrap him like a present and dither over taking off his shorts, makes pleased noises when you kiss his spine and fondle the dense knobs of his femurs. You touch the front to check, then pull out the waistband before lowering it since this one sticks out, too.

Sans twitches and moans in surprised pleasure as you brush your cheek on it, looking up at him longingly. He takes a deep, ragged breath as you hold his gaze, rub him like that until his junk pulses against you. The bottoms of his sockets flatten with tenderness as his fingertips brush your jaw.

“how d’you want me?” His voice is so _soft_ , deep vibrations that seem to curl around your heart like warm mist.

“In the mood to stick your dinglehopper in my thingamabob?”

“fuck,” he breathes. His junk twitches with excitement against your face as his sockets close briefly. Hmm. The new shape seems a lot like the last, but it’s thicker and...moves more. Like, on its own. You’ve had fun with similar shapes before. “…that sounds like a real good idea to me.”

“How about me on top?”

It’s not an idle question; you’re just as likely to get a little headshake. You’re not sure why exactly, but doing it like that always seems really intense for Sans. Penetrating you with his genitalia in particular; if you’re just rubbing or even sharing the toy, he doesn’t get like this. It might have to do with how sensitive his body gets, but you know from touching his soul it gives him some pretty sensitive emotions, too.

A deep breath hitches in, but goes out softer. “…yeah. c’mere.” Sans guides you up and over him, rubs light circles on your thighs with his hard bone thumbs, expression lax and trusting as you straddle his broad pelvis. That socket shape he does, inner corners quirked up with anticipation, always makes him look young and ancient at the same time. He’s so beautiful, you think as you lick your fingers, reach down and rub them where it counts. The pool dried you out a little, but you’re not in the mood for any more breaks.

“be easy with me,” he whispers, like he always does this way.

“You got it.” The white points expand in his bottomless sockets when you rub him on you. It’s not big or anything. You’re ready to hop right on since he needs a slow start anyhow.

“Let me know,” you add. It’s something _he_ usually says, making the corners of his mouth twitch with fondness. He huffs softly as you steady him with your fingers and sink down, taking him inside you. That’s how you think of it, taking him, because you know that’s how it makes him feel. Passive and accepting in a way he doesn’t when you fuck him with fingers or toys...this is the only thing that makes him feel this way. He closes his sockets, breathes a satisfied little _yeah_ as you slip the last bit of him into you with a roll of your hips. Easy and careful, just like you promised.

You hunker down on your elbows, and his arms go around your waist. Right now they’re tight so you don’t do anything else yet, resting lightly on his delicate bones. He uses his arms to guide you, the same way you use your legs when he’s on top. Communicative touches; body language. He moans quietly when you kiss his face, his genitalia doing some kind of excited movement all up in there. Again when you do a careful little play-bite on his jaw, and this time you moan with him. You like the wiggly ones. Sans relaxes after a minute, moves a hand to caress your side. He leaves one on your hip and gives it a nice squeeze, makes a nudging movement with his pelvis.

You lean up on one hand; he takes the other as you start to move, holds it to his mouth as he looks down to watch. God, that’s cute as hell; Sans resting his teeth on your hand, peeking down earnestly at what you’re doing. You’re only rocking on him, but his shaky huffs are hot and increasingly vocal. He presses your palm to his grin as if that’ll quiet him. It doesn’t.

Sans closes his sockets and starts thrusting up into you, drags your skin across his sensitive teeth. You tilt with his quickening movements so he hits everything just right, but after a few minutes Sans starts to get overwhelmed. He’s hiding his face in your hand, and the whimpering’s getting a little…constant. He’s flushed and shedding, movements gone jerky and desperate. He doesn’t respond when you say his name, so you let your weight rest on him to pin his hips. That helps, and the whimpers change to labored breathing that slowly evens out.

“Sans,” you repeat gently.

“can we switch?” He’s still hiding in your palm.

“Yeah.” You shift, and his hand tightens. He needs another deep breath and a sigh before he nods. He jerks and grunts as you lift off, but follows you as you roll onto your back.

Sans kneels between your legs and leans over you, but he cups his hand between your thighs and nuzzles your mouth instead of penetrating you. Well, you’re not complaining. He’s good with his hands, and those talented phalanges ease you from one kind of stimulation into the groove for another without missing a beat. Sans moans with you, even though he’s not even touching or moving his genitalia; it’s just resting near your hipbone and twitching once in a while.

“Do you want more?” you ask after a minute, caressing his lumbar spine and sacrum. He makes a pleased little hum when you trace the foramina there, so you concentrate on those. Sans keeps his sockets closed, still nuzzling at you.

“’m not sure,” he whispers eventually. That makes sense. Sans usually feels vulnerable when he’s not sure what he wants, and vice versa. A hot little blossom of love opens in your heart, because you know it takes a lot of trust for him to share even bodies when he feels that way.

“Something else?”

“wanna touch you inside,” he sighs right away. Your response is enthusiastic, and he slips in eagerly, tucks his face into your neck with a little noise when you tighten on him. “love how you feel,” he whispers. He moves his fingers like he’s exploring, rather than in a hurry to get you off. It’s nice. “can i look?”

“Hh...huh?”

“wanna look in here.” His fingers do a little wiggle.

“Yeah,” you say, and you’re glad you did when he lets out a cracked little moan.

“you’re so _pretty_ ,” he breathes like he’s dreaming, and your face goes hot. “pretty all over….pretty inside. all soft an’ crinkly…so excited….” He caresses the inside of your thigh with his femur, a suggestion you follow to open them wider. Sans’s breathing speeds up as he starts fucking you with his fingers, and his junk twitches eagerly against your skin. “when you….you take me like that,” he continues, shuddering hard as you expertly finger his sacrum, “s’like….all of you at once, and i’m….”

Sans’s rambling trails off; he gives your neck a tight little nip, then presses hot teeth to the spot to give you a penetrating nuzzle. You’re adrift on the way he holds you, on the dense-packed holes of his foramina under your fingers, on the movement inside you. Something slips into sync, and you couldn’t say what. There’s only humid sighs and soft, wet noises until you let out a held breath with a low, hungry cry.

Sans’s bones tremble when he hears it, and he makes the same noise in answer as if your need sparks his. Suddenly his fingers are out of you; blunt heat prods your folds until they part. A jagged hiss through his teeth accompanies his desperate press inward, but it catches hard in his haste. He jerks away, would have moved farther if you hadn’t held on.

“m’sorry,” he breathes, and that’s kind of not like him. He’s flustered, head bowed and sockets shut. You reach down, and a shuddery breath leaves him when your fingers close around him.

“No, no…it’s just the pool,” you say gently, touching him likewise. It was sudden, but it would have been fine if it wasn’t for the salt water making the outside dry. He’s pretty worked up, too. Speaking of which.

“Think you can get wet for me?” Like you pressed a button, Sans moans and sheds hard across his skull, in your hand. Well, he’s definitely having feelings, and rubbing helps it come out. And you _asked_ him to, which...you don’t think you’ve ever done before.

“... _please_ ,” he says just like earlier, when you rub him on your own renewing slickness. Your hands find his ilium, and he cries out as you pull him in. He keeps his sockets closed even as his spine curves to send him deep.

You moan wantonly, can't help tilting up for more. Sans gasps at the shift, and you’re sure he’s going to look at your face to check. It’s what he always does. But his skull stays bowed, and his sockets stay shut, and he starts sliding his dense, hot little piece around hesitantly to make sure it’s slick now. More yielding than bone, thrumming-thick and satisfying to tighten down on. Sans sheds again and frowns gently at the pleasure of it, hands on your shoulders like he needs something to hold on to. His thumbs stroke across as he adjusts his legs, then presses in at an angle that makes you grunt softly.

“like that?” he pants instead of peeking, voice barely there as harder thrust makes your toes curl. “’m i doin’ it right?”

“Yeah,” you gush, aroused and surprised. The way Sans is keeping his sockets shut is almost...kinky, in a way. It’s hot. “It’s good, baby, just how I like it.” He lies down when you caress the back of his ribcage, pressing bones against you with a needy mewl. You twine your fingers right into him to make him feel _held_ , rub the inside of a rib. He shudders hard around you as his genitalia gets wetter, the penetrating tingle that feels like _him_. “You’re so good…”

Sans chokes on a moan and speeds up, adding sweet pangs of slick friction as he fills you over and over. You move to meet him, letting him feel your body’s welcome as he makes another frantic noise, his hands searching and squeezing like they need to hold all of you at once. He’s shaky-tense like he’s close, and also like he’s struggling with something, but it’s not...bad. You love each hot push of his body into yours, the way he stays deep and rocks his hips to give you as much as he can.

“is it--” Sans wants something so much he’s spending magic steadily, his desire spilling over tingly-wet until it makes a soft kissing noise with every thrust. But your body doesn’t speak his body’s language; he has to tell you. He hides his sweaty face in your shoulder, hiccuping as he rides the edge.

“…i’m good?” he shakes out faintly. “’m i bein’ good for you?”

“ _Yyyeah_ ,” comes gushing out of you, because it’s true, and because he wants you to, and it’s sexy. “You’re _good_ , I love you so much, you’re so good and I love wh-, what you’re doing...”

Sans comes with a lurch as soon as you say _good_ , the quiet intensity of his ragged moan sliding under your litany. His bones loosen as he stutters in you wetly, then glides through his climax hugging you close and rubbing your arm over and over with a trembling hand. He muffles his shuddering huffs in your skin, moving sinuous-slow and savoring each careful drag as the tension unwinds evenly from his body. Your words finally dissolve away into shared pleasure, because this is how he moves when it feels best for him; these take a long time because it doesn’t hit him all at once, doesn’t _hit_ him at all. It just wrings out helpless waves of pleasure until he’s spent. Eventually he rests on your body, panting and relaxed.

But he’s still so hard inside you, twitching now and then and you still haven’t come. He’s there long enough for you to consider saying something, but right at that point he leans up. His sockets open, and the intensity in them hits you like the heat from an oven door. Bone finds your clit at the same time, startling a noise out of you.

“i don’ wanna go again,” he pants quietly, that intensity blazing just for you now as he rubs your eager little nub with all the care and skill he’s got. “it’s already perfect,” he adds, a hint of awe threading into his voice. “that was _perfect_ for me...” You think he’s going to pull out as he kneels up, and the pressure on your cervix eases.

A hard thrust at your favorite angle pushes a moan through your lips. He starts fucking you the way he does when he’s chasing his pleasure, when he wants you _so much_ , when he, he…

“this’s special,” he rumbles breathily, “jus’ for you. feels so fuckin’ good though…” Your moan goes gritty as he adds some impact to his enthusiasm. It works. You’re already close.

“lemme feel you,” he says, points in his sockets widening. “ _love_ it when you come on me,” he manages through his exertion. “ohh, stars--” He cries out louder than you do when you come, moaning like he can’t get enough. His body inside yours is responsive and insistent, working you deep through it, and he was right. It does feel special, feels _just for you_. He uses gliding movement to say it, a kinetic translation of the slickness he spends in you. Your climax ebbs eventually despite his expertise at drawing it out, but he leans back over you and doesn’t stop.

“got one more in there for me, darlin’?” he rumbles. You’re a-okay with finding out. You wouldn’t have said it _could_ get even better, but it does. Short little jabs angled just right, punching in a pattern like numbers that unlock a deeper, hotter pleasure inside you. His hand pressed tight between you, devastatingly consistent flickering that creates an inescapable counterpoint.

It gets closer and closer, and you barely hear your own short, sharp cries as half is halved, an impression of narrowing space pressing you inevitably toward your peak. You don’t say anything about how good it is since he’s trying not to come...but you can’t help thinking it, and he can’t help seeing it in every ecstatic line of your expression. Then _close_ becomes _now_ , and you ignite with a bright white flash behind your eyes.

He keens when you tighten down, and his breath goes jagged-desperate. Instead of lingering after, his hand changes shape suddenly to rest the backs of his fingers against you. He pulls out and squeezes his junk hard, confirming that he’d been both serious about not wanting to go again, and also close.

His hand’s between you so those parts don’t touch; restraining him, but there for you, too. You hump his trembling knuckles a little so he knows you understand, that you’re sharing bodies still. That it doesn’t _have_ to be over yet, even though he can’t take anymore and still like it. You really are all good though, so after another nudge you just hug each other tight and let him calm down at his own pace. A gradual ending instead of the abrupt one he’s worried about, until finally he makes a soft half-laugh and nudges you with his forehead.

“guess i got a lil greedy,” he says sheepishly, then flops over on his side to cuddle you. It doesn’t take long before he tucks his hand between your thighs; you’re actually a little sore even though it didn’t seem rough. Maybe it took longer than you thought or something. (Or maybe that initial catch was harder than it felt at the time.)

“you okay here?”

“Yeah,” you rasp, satiation like syrup in your voice. “That was crazy good, sweetie.”

Magic seethes in his face as he looks at your chin. “was that other thing...okay?” His eyes flick up briefly, sees he needs to clarify. “don’t… want you ta feel like you have to say that stuff to me,” he whispers. He needs you to communicate, but he means...praising him, you suppose.

“I mean...I kinda started it, and I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to.” Sans’s shyness is usually in direct proportion to how much he wants something. “I was pretty into it,” you admit. “Want me to help it go back?”

His grin eases, and he nuzzles you lightly. “yeah. see if it listens to you.”

Surprisingly enough, it does. Sans’s magic feels different when it’s going back, and you indulge your interest in its increasing density. It curls and coils, slips from between your fingers back into the crux of his pubic bones. You’re distracted, and you gasp when his middle phalanx slips between your folds lightly.

“sure you’re okay?” he asks. He sounds fine, but.

“Are you worried about sex things, shortiepie?”

He exhales heavily, takes his hand away curls up in your embrace, wraps his bone arms around and gives you a squeeze.

“jus’…..wanna be good for you,” he says eventually. “the way i am.” You feel his magic shed as he presses his face under your ear. “hope you like...my…” He’s struggling again, but it’s different. “...how i am… _there_.” His voice shrinks. “….i want you to like my dick.”

Welp. That’s the first time you’ve heard him say that. He sheds again and gets all hunchy, so you pet the back of his ribs to reassure him.

“I do,” you say earnestly. “I’m just...surprised.”

“’m tryin’ it out,” he admits tightly, flustered. “not sure how i feel bout it yet.”

“I like how you are there,” you offer. “Do y-”

“does it bother you that it changes?”

“No,” you say.

He makes his quivery, exhausted-animal huff. Like when one of his night terrors is over, because you helped it be.

“It…bothers you?” you ask meekly.

“i don’t know what it’s _called_ ,” he whispers, a mournful little sound. There’s whole layers to that. He doesn’t know if it’s how it’s supposed to be, or if what happened to him made it that way. Doesn’t know if there something wrong with it, or what it means about him. He literally doesn’t know what it _is_.

“We just talk about it monster-style,” you say earnestly, despite the little thorn in your heart. “Talk about what we want to do with it, or...describe it, when it comes up? It doesn’t feel weird to do it that way.” You rub the top of his skull with your chin, wishing you could help more. You don’t know what his genitalia’s called, either. “ _You_ get to decide what to call it,” you say, and that’s a little better. “You can even come up with something of your own, if you want.”

“’m no good at naming stuff,” he sighs. He flops back with a flattened grin, then reaches out and pinches all along your side-butt a bunch to make you both smile again.

“might as well ask asgore ta name it,” he says wryly. “end up with somethin’ real creative like ‘skeleton genitals’, or ‘new crotch’.”

You laugh together; you let him know it’s a contender for the working blue portion of his show, if he ever gets brave enough to roast his own coals in that regard.

“So here’s a question you don’t have to answer,” you say, then continue at his nod. “I know the first time you shared it-” you imitate the gesture he uses, “-with me. I said that thing about not having to name it. And I meant it like you took it.” He blushes and smiles. “It just seemed like over time it became…more than that?”

He looks at the ceiling and scratches his mandible, then up underneath it all the way to his hard palate. It makes a weird noise because of the texture. It’s cute.

“so. think of it like this. say, uh, monsters came up like they did, and you...ended up fooling around with a few of em. maybe like it was before?” You nod. “goes on for a while, then one time in the middle of it…your knees start growin’ tentacles out of em.” You snort in surprise. “heh, i know... bear with me. people keep sayin, ‘oh, there’s your cunt.’ but...you don’t _have_ a cunt. never did, far as you knew, and these’re _knee tentacles_. doesn’t do anything a cunt does, doesn’t look like that to you, doesn’t...feel how it’s supposed to feel. any a that make sense at all?” he asks sadly.

Well. You don’t know about other monsters’ junk (since Grillby doesn’t have any), but you know Sans’s doesn’t feel like yours even when it’s shaped similarly. You know, because you’ve shared it, you’ve merged with him and felt it like it was your own body. How it feels with his genitalia out…well. It’s not like when you touch and kiss his bones; then, he moans and shivers as it just gets _more_ ; it makes his magic shed and his soul thrum without being directional. Based on your admittedly limited knowledge pool, it seems like that’s similar to what all monsters feel, including those without any junk at all.

Sans’s genital pleasure has a quality of drawing, a pulling or...gathering, maybe. It’s a feeling all Sans’s junk seems to have in common, which makes sense since they’re all the same exact part of his body in a different shape.

“It makes more sense to me now than it did before, why you were so sure being with humans made it happen,” you offer quietly. “I would have thought that if it was me.” He sighs, seems eased by that. The thorn’s still there, because you can do better. “We talk about parts of mine but not, like. The whole thing,” you say, slow and reluctant. “Hey,” you say, because he looked away from your discomfort to spare you.

You make the gesture he usually uses to _indicate_ his genitalia.

“I know it’s not meant to be a word,” you urge. “But it means ‘what you have there’ anyways.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his eye lights wander a few inches away from yours. After a silent little while, his sockets leak. He wipes them when they’re done.

“yeah,” he whispers. “…yeah. okay.”

“You’re just not used to it yet, maybe. Does it still feel weird?”

“kinda. it bothers me less that it’s there at all. but...”

You wait.

“…bothers me i don’t know why it’s like that,” Sans says slowly. “why it changes.” He’s looking at the wall instead of your expression. Since you’re both thinking about the fact that Papyrus isn’t like Sans. His is always the same, like most humans and monsters.

“Maybe it’s just, um. Different color eyes.”

He looks at you. “huh?”

“Me and Ange are different, um,” you offer. “Different.” Genders. “But according to a lot of humans we have the same junk… category. Maybe it’s like that?”

“i didn’t know that.” It seems that helped him somehow, although why is unclear. He leans in, but before he can demand kisses, Sans laughs at your surprise. “gotta get tori least eight glasses in ‘fore she’ll get into Dog gossip,” Sans chuckles softly, then claims his kisses. “monsters don’t talk about what people got downstairs anyhow, remember?” he says, tickling your lips with his teeth vibration. He also lets you rub the tickle away on them, so it works out for everyone. You press your forehead to his, shut your eyes.

“I like that you told me I’m pretty,” you whisper to make it even. “Called me beautiful.” Little spoonfuls of trust back and forth, like feeding each other from the fridge. You’d told him he was good, and it made him realize just how badly he _wanted_ to be told that. He’d called you beautiful...and it made you want to hear it more. Those kind of feelings are complicated. A lot of things that would bother you if someone else did them...you like when Sans does it. In private, when it’s just for you and him.

“s’jus’ the truth,” he says with deceptive lightness. “but ‘m still glad you let me get away with it.”

“You’re _good_ , Sans,” you say, very quietly. He tenses and suppresses some kind of noise, but you hug him tighter, than pull him back up on top of you. Just hold him for a bit, but you’re glad when he doesn’t argue or joke.

“You’re still having a little...trouble, right?” you ask gently.

“lil bit,” he whispers into your neck eventually.

It’s been several months since you and Sans have had sex.

Like. At all. Since the whole kid-walking-in thing. You try thinking about Sans’s perspective. You’d been pretty sure he started wanting to again, maybe had for a while. Now that he felt like he _could,_ in addition to wanting to, you think he was worried about seeming...needy and awkward about it. Worried about acting weird or doing something that would bother you. And you’re pretty sure he’s still soul-shy. He’d brought it out earlier because he wanted to and he trusts you, but kept it where only he could see and touch it.

You wonder if you should say something. You decide to.

“You’re still good for me like this,” you say rubbing his shoulderblade with the inside of your wrist. “It means a lot that you...trust me, because I know it’s hard. I liked how you closed your eyes, because it _felt_ like you trust me. You let me make you feel good… then you trusted me to _tell_ you you’re good. And...” Your heart gets all crinkly-soft, and you just have to hug him, nuzzle his skull passionately. “Then you let yourself see that it was true.”

“i love you,” he says weakly into your skin, the tingle of his magic trying to tell you that’s true, too. And yeah, there’s a lot of things you want to hear, that are nevertheless difficult to hear. But he still feels your heart thud hard, because you both know those things are there between you, ripe with potential and growing over time.

That he’ll tell you all of them, once you can bear it. He’s not in a rush, and he’s never going anywhere. He’s right where he wants to be.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I had The Big Feelings writing this. Can't believe I got in under 10k words this time.  
> <3 Thank you so much for reading it <3


	9. the undefeated champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Papyrus.
> 
> Featuring babybones care and puzzling puzzling objects.
> 
> [LAKE - No Wonder I](https://youtu.be/lkEmDItUAUU)

It’s a medium sort of day, right in the middle of a medium sort of week.

Your afternoon’s going pretty medium.

Medium physically, medium emotionally….medium hung...rily.

You pause your show to go get a snack.

You don’t have anything particular in mind, which turns out to be just as well since Papyrus is spreadeagled on the kitchen floor. The floor itself is completely covered in a blanket of teapots, teacups, towels, doilies, and crocheted cozies shaped like…various animals, maybe? Seems like Undyne made them.

“How’s the tea party going?”

Papyrus frowns up at you winsomely. It’s different than his _pout_ , during which he tries to make his face un-handsome on purpose. His _frown_ is just half poetic and half kinda funny.

“INCONCLUSIVE,” he sighs. “ASK AGAIN LATER.”

You grin. He’s been playing with your perfectly preserved “Magic 8 Ball” again. Papyrus is the only person you’ve ever given carte blanche to borrow and do whatever he likes with your delicate antique board game collection. He’s very gentle about it, and sometimes you come home to see him playing against himself, sweating and mumbling very loudly under his breath. He calls it “meditating.”

“Are you trying to tell the future?”

He gives you a sharp look, and you raise your eyebrows in challenge. He can read into that if he wants to, but you don’t mean anything by it.

“I DON’T NEED TO. I HAVE PLANS WITH EMMMM KAYYYY TODAYYYYY,” he sighs.

“Are you not happy about that or something?”

He seems startled.

“WHY ON EARTH WOULD I NOT BE HAPPY ABOUT THAT?” Papyrus squints his sockets at you, then grins sharply. “IT’S JUST NOT ESPECIALLY NOTABLE! A MEDIUM OCCURRENCE ON A MEDIUM SORT OF DAY, SINCE WE HAVE AN ALREADY-EXISTING RELATIONSHIP THAT HAS BEEN PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED MANY TIMES AND YET HAS RARELY BEEN EXPLORED OTHER THAN ESTABLISHING BASIC BACKSTORY FACTS!!”

“It does seem like that,” you admit as Papyrus gulps in a deep breath, “although that’s a weird way to put it.”

“I COULDN’T HAVE PUT IT BETTER,” Papyrus says cryptically, then bounces up to his feet quickly enough to startle you. The crockery and china alike are undisturbed by his abrupt return to height. “WILL YOU HELP ME CLEAN UP THE TEA PARTY?”

Oh geez. He asked you directly, so it’s twice as much work to wriggle out of it. You’re no Sans.

“I don’t want to, but I will.”

“THAT!! WILL DO.”

And it does. You wash some of the used cups and then just mostly fold tea towels he hands you so you don’t have to bend over a bunch. Papyrus returns the crockery to a new cupboard that dates from the last time he destroyed half the kitchen accidentally. Sans must have made it, since it’s the same size as the rest of them, but everything from the floor fits right in there.

“So is this like, special one on one quality time? Do you want me to take off, or…?”

“OF COURSE NOT!” Papyrus quacks. “WHO’LL WATCH SARIEL IF YOU LEAVE?”

“Oh.” You blink. “Oh! MK’s bringing Sariel today?”

“NYES? MK ASKED FOR HELP WITH ONE OF THEIR NEW PUZZLES. AND WHILE SARIEL IS MORE THAN WELCOME TO ADD THEIR YOUTHFUL EXPERTISE REGARDING DEADLY SPIKES, SO FAR THEY SEEM UNLIKELY TO. IT’S JUST LIKE OLD TIMES, EXCEPT WE’RE NOT TRAPPED IN A TIMELESS UNDERGROUND PRISON AND WE’RE OLDER!”

“Well, sure. Yeah, I can babysit.”

“SITTING ON BABYBONES IS NOT RECOMMENDED,” Papyrus informs you.

“I think it’s like, sitting _with_ them,” you say slowly, then a soft _dud-dud_ noise happens that heralds MK’s timely arrival. You let Papyrus do his SOMEONE’S AT THE DOOR routine with plenty of elbow room, decide to look up the etymology of “babysit”. Kinda interesting, turns out “babysitter” predates the verb “babysit” by at least a decade, and is theorized by some scholars to have to do with hens sitting on eggs, actually. Weird.

You look up once the flailing calms.

“Hi, MK. How’s it hanging?”

“Low and to the left!” they chortle, and you snort at a joke you’re less used to from monsters. Alphys said something once during one of her and Sans’s not-exactly-forgetting-you're-there conversations in The Hole that strongly suggests MK’s got genitalia, but you’re glad you don’t know what it is. What you overhear by accident before you flee from their loud and/or chatty sex is bad enough.

Papyrus unwraps Sari from the special carrier MK has people put them in for travel purposes, although they can get them in and out with their tail if they need to. It’s just a pain in the ass. You make grabby hands for baby acquisition as Papyrus overwhelms the chitchat with puzzle questions, and receive one(1) babybones.

“Hello, Sariel,” you grin, holding them up so you can peer into their face. They do round-sockets at you, with a dash of marching-legs and that huffy-happy thing. “Oh no,” you say softly. “You’re too cute. I have to sit down before I swoon.”

Sari seems quite pleased by these circumstances. You sit on the couch, while MK and Papyrus take up a good portion of the floor and get their puzzling puzzling objects out. Oop, yep. There goes Papyrus trollface-jaw.

“ARE YOU _PUZZLED_ BY MY PUZZLING PUZZLING OBJECTS?”

“Yes, Papyrus,” you report flatly. “I am always puzzled by your puzzling puzzling objects.”

“GOOD!” he barks, then gets down to brass tacks. He’s not easy to tune out, but Sariel helps. As does your auditory processing disorder as he remembers to stop talking to _you_.

“Did you know that a lot of people just assume I don’t like kids?” Sariel’s tiny bone brow creases. “I _know_ ,” you gossip heartily, “and I have no clue why. _Rude_ , right? Boop, beep, boop,” you say absently, making their little fists pump robot-style by wiggling your fingers where they grab them. Their bones are getting bigger little by little, but it seems like skeleton babies take longer than human babies to grow. It makes sense, since they’re a monster, and monsters vary so wildly in that regard there’s really no standard that can be established. Each child is kind of a crapshoot. And of course, some monsters don’t “have children” at all.

“We have a lot in common, you know,” you muse. “We both have a lot to learn about monsters, right? You because you are one, so you probably wanna learn how to _be_ one. And I bet you’ll be amazing at it once you decide to give it a try! You’re already doing a really good job of being a baby!”

Sariel huffs and kicks at that, pleased as pie. Spending time together just hanging out is also a good way to work on know-without-seeing, which you’re still not exactly the best at. And you suppose it’s a good opportunity for Sariel to be around a human that isn’t their parent. Sari’s nasal cavity quivers. Makes you smile a bunch.

“Me…? Well. I’m around monsters all the time because I like them better than humans. I mean.” You blink at yourself. But yeah, you kinda knew that. “It’s just. I never know why humans do things, except when I do and it’s usually kind of a crappy reason. They say it’s not but lying doesn’t work on me a lot of the time. I wish it did. It makes me tired.” Sari grunts without voice. “Sorry,” you say. “You’re not my emotional support baby. I know I get to talking, sometimes. Hee hee….I’m just your grumpy grampy-gram!”

Sari grunts again.

“You’re not supposed to agree with me,” you say, amusement thickening your tone. Sari seems smug about it nevertheless. Probably enough chitchat. It’s toy time now.

“Hey, Paps!”

“NYES?”

“Do you still have my 8-ball?”

He does, and he also retrieves it for you. He makes the face so you know you keep interrupting him every time it starts to get interesting, and you round-eyes at him so he knows you don’t care and won’t stop.

“STOP MAKING ME DO NORMAL THINGS!” he complains cheerfully.

“NO!” you say in your nasal Papyrus impression, and he visibly suppresses a grin. “I love you!”

That makes him blush.

“YOU’RE WELCOME!!” he blurts in flusterment, then flounces back to MK, who is now openly laughing at him.

“IT NEEDS MORE SPIKE TRAPS!!” he hollers, re-invoking the protection of the Structure Activity Zone.

“Really? Where?”

“WHERE THEY LEAST EXPECT THEM, OF COURSE.”

“Oh, _yeah_! That makes sense!”

MK inputs something into the doodly with their tail, apparently having an innate sense of hypothetical peoples’ expectations. You wonder what it’s like to have an amazing superpower like that.

“Do you think your parent is working on a new projected game?” you ask Sari, then wiggle the ball. The icosahedron floats up, revealing the face that reads “IT IS CERTAIN.”

“It is _certain_ ,” you hiss conspiratorially at Sari, and they seem quite amazed. “We really got the inside scoop here….” You ask and read the answers a few more times, and they do some rasp-clackity-plaps with their tiny bone hands on the plastic orb. It really takes a while, since you're both super into it and Sari definitely wants to do more patting in between the asking questions and reading the answers and all.

“Does Sari like kisses?” you call suddenly.

“Yeah!” MK hollers. Then they look up at you. “Yeah!” they repeat, to make sure you know that they’re talking to you.

Sari gazes at you steadily. Their expression is starting to resemble Sans’s this-is-hilarious face, and it gives you an idea.

“Uh oh,” you inform them seriously. Then you duck in and give them a kiss right on that little doodad at the bottom of their nasal cavity.

Oh god. They do the surprised in-out whuffly breaths just like Sans, and now you’re crying. Sariel seems concerned.

“It’s okay,” you say, wiping your eyes on the inside of your shirt collar. “You’re just too cute!! I can’t live!!”

“ARE YOU CRYING BECAUSE A BABY IS CUTE AGAIN??” Papyrus accuses.

“Yeah!” you warble wetly from inside your shirt.

“THAT’S VERY HONORABLE OF YOU!”

“Thanks...” You take a deep breath, then reemerge into life. Sariel seems to have also regained their composure, so you shift your hold and stand up, go forth to seek a tissue on account of the snot.

“You really did a number on me this time,” you say stuffily, then singlehandedly wrestle off a paper towel and blow your nose on it. “You are truly an unforgiving charge, subjecting me to your merciless cuteness at will.”

Sari huffs delightedly, then grunts again, but….

...

...Something about it seriously twigs your lizard brain. A sound? Something sibilant and strange. You jump, startled by it, then look down at Sariel carefully. Stare at them, because that purplish color creeps across their cheekbones. But this time it tints their eye lights as well, and they glance away. You finish wiping your nose quietly, then wander over to the threshold of the living room.

“Hey,” you say hesitantly. MK and Papyrus still, look up at you quickly. “Is it okay if I have a conversation with Sari in private?”

MK and Papyrus look at each other like you asked something weird or just in a weird way, then nod in tandem. You take Sariel upstairs and end up in Papyrus’s room. You sit Sari down down across from you, supported by the pillows tilted up against the headboard.

“Okay, so. I figure you…have a name, right? And you’re going to tell us at some point?”

Know-without-seeing isn’t exactly the most reliable thing, but it seems like they’re...listening, maybe? Cautious?

“I just...wonder if it bothers you that you have a name already? I mean, um, that Frisk and MK gave you a name? Is it interfering with anything?”

Sariel looks away. They don’t like this conversation.

“Sorry!” you say quickly, pick them up and give them a hug. “We don’t have to talk about it!”

They prefer that. You take a big breath and let it out.

“Thank you for your patience,” you say, rub their back soothingly as you ramble. They do the skeleton-loosening thing, so you know the soothing is working. “I want to make sure you know that you can...not talk about it, but do the thing you do, with whoever you...need to. Or not, as they case may be. Taking care of babies that aren’t human has challenges, and I’m sure _being_ one has them, too. And it’s better to ask than assume. We appreciate your assistance in this matter.”

When you take Sari off your shoulder...it’s damp.

“Oh!” you say weakly, then repeat yourself in a stronger tone. “Oh. You did leaking by accident.” Sari observes this circumstance with equanimity, which is fair. Babies have feelings, too, and monsters get leaky for many various emotional reasons. As far as you know, adults can’t really control it a lot of the time, so there’s no reason babies would.

“Okay. So. I’m human like Frisk, so I don’t know what monsters know from that. So I’m going to...” You frown, thinking. “I’m going to clean you up, just in case it’s private feelings.” You get up and shuffle a few steps, thinking about where the extra damp-cloth thingies are for Sans’s bad nap case, which is all the way down in your room. There’s a linen closet at the upstairs landing here, so you decide to check.

You open the closet, then gasp in delight. And a medium amount of relief, maybe.

(You also grab a damp-cloth out of the little basket-box thing to press at your shoulder, because bingo.)

“PAPYRUS!!” you yell, almost as loud as he would as you dab at the baby. Sari sneezes from the sudden excitement of yelling, your discovery, and being dabbed all happening at once.

“I found Sans!! And Sariel sneezed an it was really cute!!” They both yell wordlessly (you think; maybe they just forgot to do the soul-understanding thing) in celebration.

And you have, after over 24 hours of Sans undoubtedly winning at the vaguely hide-and-seek-esque game he, Papyrus, and Frisk had been playing since the other day. You actually were getting worried, and decided to pull a Sans in his absence by doing nothing until a something to do actually presented itself. But instead, you found him. Sari’s wiggly, because they _really_ like Sans. Most kids do. MK and Papyrus arrive after various scrambling and thumping noises.

“YOUR REIGN OF TERROR IS FINALLY OVER, BROTHER!” Papyrus yells at the snoring form folded up on the towels. Well, _between_ the towels on the top shelf, in that position that looks like he was sitting crosslegged then bent over and just fell asleep. He’s surprisingly compact that way. His hands are, of course, in his pockets. You’re pretty sure Frisk and Paps both checked in here multiple times, but Sans is an egregious and occasionally unintentional cheater, especially if he’s sleeping.

Papyrus finishes checking over his brother, riffling his clothes and peeping in ribcage and pelvis briefly to make sure nothing’s stuck inside his body, muttering about the time he "caught crabs". A sleeping Sans on the go has a tendency to pick up random detritus, and you’ve got a feeling Papyrus was starting to get a little concerned as well. This time Sans isn't even especially dirty. His concerns assuaged, Papyrus scoops Sans up and plops him on his hip.

“IN FACT, YOUR DEFEAT IS BOTH SOUND _AND_ UNCONTESTED. THIS OCCASION CALLS FOR AN OCCASION,” he announces. His delight is contagious, as is his enthusiasm. Sariel's legs march as they huff, purple and indigo seething across their tiny skull.

Papyrus takes a deep breath and strikes a pose. Sans’s skull lolls, and he ZzzZz’s dramatically.

“I WILL MAKE THE SPAGHETTI!!” Papyrus hollers.

MK gasps, then does an odd series of wiggles...like a _skeleton_ , you’re realizing. Papyrus scoops them up as well, and your eyebrows lift as you're reminded how strong Papyrus is. MK isn’t Frisk, but they’re not especially small, either.

As you follow the stately procession of Papyrus carrying MK on one hip and Sans’s snoozing form on the other, you ponder that. You notice Sans doing it around you more for Reasons, but yeah. Seems like all skeletons wiggle the same way humans rub their hands together, hug themselves, lick their lips, or do other little motions that anticipate something pleasant. Imitating something their bodies do automatically when they have a pleasurable experience. It makes sense that MK subconsciously picked up the haptics of that at some point, which you only are noticing more now seeing a not-skeleton do it.

“I learn more about skeletons every day!” you giggle aside to Sari, whose eye lights practically glow with excitement as you take a seat at the kitchen table. Papyrus sets Sans down in another chair across from you and gets cracking with MK still equipped. You study Sariel more closely now that they’re distracted. It’s like a pale lavender sort of...tinge to their eyes, maybe, and it stays put for the spectacle. You’re sure Sari’s seen this before, but it’s not the like glitter, explosions, explosions of glitter, and sudden cameo by Annoying Dog to bark the boiling sauce into submission before winking back out loses its appeal for _you_ , either.

“REMEMBER WHEN WE USED TO DO THIS?” Papyrus says to MK excitedly. “I DO THIS WITH SARIEL NOW SOMETIMES BECAUSE I’M THEIR GREAT-PAPYRUS!!!!”

“Yo!! That’s cool!” MK cries, pleased, then ducks quickly as a wooden spoon flailing a tomato’s precious former lifeblood swoops overhead. Sans grunts faintly as the orange-oily spray decorates his frontal bone, then snicker-snores.

“NYEH HEH HEH! YES, EXACTLY. YOU WEIGHED MORE, OF COURSE. AND YOU STILL DO! I JUST MEAN IT’S BECAUSE SARIEL IS ONLY BONES!! AND MAGIC!! THAT ISN’T FLESH AND ALL THAT BUT YOU LAUGHED MUCH LOUDER!! WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE PART OF SPAGHETTI PRACTICE?”

“Pa _py_ rus, I don’t remember things from when I was a _baby_!” MK chortles. “My brain wasn’t formed or whatever yet!!”

“OH,” Papyrus says, seeming mildly deflated. “WELL, THAT’S FINE! I DON’T ALWAYS REMEMBER THINGS ALL OF THE TIME, UNLESS I TAKE THE TIME FOR REMEMBERING!”

“Nyeh heh heh!” MK retorts brightly, and it seems like Papyrus is heartened by that. It makes you think. All monsters are kind of weird to all humans, to varying degrees. But seeing Papyrus and MK together reminds you that Papyrus is weird even to _monsters_. Well, humans think _you’re_ weird, even to humans, sometimes. But that’s okay; you’re not going to stop being you no matter what people think.

“IT’S READY!!” Papyrus cries in warning, and you huddle close with Sariel as the strange cyclone of ready-spaghetti agitates, then settles. When you fully un-huddle, there’s a plate of spaghetti in front of all of you. You jump at a belated POOF from Papyrus’s spaghetti cauldron, still on the stovetop. Blushing, he jumps up and turns off the burner he forgot he left on.

Just as you’re about to dig in, MK shouts, “Wait! You gotta read it first!”

“Read what?”

“The spaghetti!!” they cry, grinning in anticipation. Of what, you have no clue. Nevertheless, you look down at your plate, squinting and moving your head around. It's like a word search accidentally printed on top of a few other word searches. Slowly, you pick out a pattern as your eyes un-focus, then re-focus.

You find three words spelled out in spaghetti-on-spaghetti.

_UNDEFEATED SANSFINDER CHAMPION_

"Oh, neato! I guess I am!"

“hh...”

You all look up as one when Sans finally makes a noise. His sockets slit open, and he snorts and shudders. After a few blinks, the white points coalesce unusually quickly inside.

“how’s winnin’ taste?” he slurs smugly, sitting up from his slumber-slump.

That's a good point. You _had_ been getting up to get a snack earlier, hadn't you? And now you're actually hungry after all the excitement an exercise, which is convenient. It's a good time for it. You take a bite and report back.

“Indescribable.”


	10. smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [All I Want – Joni Mitchell](https://youtu.be/Wq2jhs19_V8)

_Plap._

“What was that?” Nattie’s new human friend, Tracy, asks. The not-exactly-there crease between her brows, a tiny muscle twitching under the skin like it wants to move...she’s mildly concerned, not judgmental or suspicious. It speaks well of her.

Sans fiddles with his fork in a way that makes it seems like he’s eating.

“mm…not sure. you hear something, nats?”

Nattie’s poker face still needs some work, but it’s not too shab for an eleven year old human. They’re no Frisk or anything, but most humans aren’t.

“Do you like the quiche?” they ask instead. Tracy frowns for real, this time in thought.

“It’s interesting,” she says, then thinks some more. “I think...the idea of it bothered me at first. But once I stopped thinking about it and just _ate_ it, it got a lot better.”

Sans likes her so far. Her family moved here looking for better work and found it, although they’ve only been here a few months. A mom and her “boyfriend”, a sibling named “Chester” much younger than Tracy. A baby. Neither adult is especially involved with monsters, but Tracy goes to Toriel’s school anyways.

It’s Sans’s business to know things that are none of his business, and business is good. Vetting Nattie’s new human friend, especially the first one they’ve made since the incident that caused their mom to move them here (and get a divorce that should have already happened years ago), is going well so far. Just a little asking around and some viewnode research, looking up some folks, talking to the kid in question. Nothing anyone would have to worry about. Not like he’s a secret agent, or a spy or anything.

(He’s a spy. And a remarkably skilled interrogator.)

You’ve never called him out on it, but you would if you felt reason to. Sans smiles at the quiche he made using completely non-magic ingredients. In other words, something Sans can touch with his physical bones and even maybe smell a _little_ bit, something he can manipulate but nothing his body can use. His mouth, which is entirely magic and non-physical, doesn’t recognize it as food, so it falls out the other side instead of going _in_. Humans can eat it fine; so can most monsters can as long as they’re ready to use a human toilet as intended. In some cases, in a bit of a hurry, but eh. Sometimes applied epicureanism--

“No, it’s okay, Tracy!! Sans is just doing his prank, there’s nothing wrong with it, see??”

Sans looks up in alarm, chagrined to have let his attention wander. He’s supposed to be keeping an eye, and Tracy looks pretty upset. That was quick.

“hey, kiddo, what’s up?” he asks very, very gently.

“Nothing, Mr. Sans! I’m j-just, I’m being dumb...”

She shakes her head, rubbing a wet eye as Nattie rubs her back and takes several obvious bites of _her_ food. Nattie does a ducking motion with their head towards Sans. Oh. She thinks it’s a _mean_ joke, that there’s something wrong with her quiche. Shit, Sans should have caught on to that _way_ before now, headed it off at the pass.

“…hey. tracy.”

She looks sort-of at him. Listening.

“you’re not being ‘dumb’. you’re right that there’s a joke, but it’s on _me_ , okay? watch what happens when i try an’ eat it.”

He takes a bite, and her reddened eyes go round as it falls through his mandible, his ribcage, his pelvis, and hits the chair from inside his shorts.

_Plap._

It startles a little noise out of her. Promising.

“see? ‘m a _skeleton_ monster, so food that’s for humans goes right _through_ me.”

Sans is relieved when she giggles wetly, does it a few more times and acts like it’s delicious. He’s upset, but he hides it. Kids, even strapping big-stripes like Tracy, don’t think things like that unless someone already did something like that to ‘em. Put something nasty in her food, tricked her into eating it. Or maybe just told her they did. Either way, Sans would have known she was sensitive along those lines if he was paying attention like he should. Thinking about it makes him angry, and certainly not at anyone here besides himself. He just tries to forget it, since he can’t do anything about it. Does what he _can_ do instead of dwelling on it, and that’s putting smiles back where they go.

The rest of the visit goes fine, and the payoff’s still there when he finally stands up and all the quiche bites fall out of his shorts onto the floor. She laughs again when he just leaves it there, and he decides to consider it officially Smoothed Over.

He still feels real bad, though, so he offers to take her home with a shortcut instead of having her call someone to come. Kids love that shit, even human kids as long as they don’t open their eyes. He takes Nattie too so Tracy doesn’t feel awkward, and gets to see her mom get all flustered when they all walk around the corner. Sans makes sure she feels special and important (not embarrassed or put on the spot), and he and Nats head back. He drops them in the kitchen and mumbles something about catching some Z’s after all that hard work. He stops, confused, when Nattie calls his name in a surprised tone.

He turns back, and Nattie’s pointing at the quiche bits still on the floor of the kitchen.

Oh. He forgot about those. His face seethes with embarrassed magic. Sure, Sans makes messes and doesn’t clean them all the time, or only cleans them later. But those all have various purposes, and are _on_ purpose.

“sorry, kiddo,” he says sheepishly. “guess ‘m kinda off my game.”

Nattie looks at him seriously with those big black eyes as he wanders over to get a napkin.

“That’s because you miss ti-ti.”

“huh?”

“You get sleepy when they’re not here.”

Sans keeps his grin easy with an effort.

“’m always sleepy,” Sans drawls sleepily, squatting down next to the chunks. “good thing i got all these _nap_ -kins, huh?” He sets down the napkin and picks up the bits with his fingers, then sets the bits on the napkin.

Nattie is unmoved. “I don’t know why you don’t go with them when they do the Talks.”

He doesn’t go _with_ because he’s not technically allowed, not that anyone can actually stop him. His work trips with Alphys are carefully planned and organized by Undyne and his brother, and protective measures and details are all hammered out well in advance. Sans is “supposed” to stay in Ebott and its outlying natural areas when he’s not working...and your “Talks” usually roam far afield of both. That’s kind of the point.

Sure, a random and sufficiently annoyed elbow in a human crowd could end Sans pretty concisely, but his reflexes are good, and he makes it a point to never have a human at his back. Tori’s overprotectiveness doesn’t...grate...exactly, but for some reason it’s more noticeable now things are different between them.

It might irritate him if he thought about it, so he doesn’t think about it. Except now Nattie’s bringing it up, so he is. And it does.

Sans exhales in wry amusement, scratches under his chin with the backs of his nubbly fingers as he picks up the pieces one by one. He’s pretty accustomed to human kids busting his nonexistent balls.

“You’re taking forever, and you didn’t answer my question,” Nattie adds.

Sans huffs, then finishes what he’s doing.

“’s cause ‘m headed there now,” he says lightly, standing up. He blushes and turns quickly to the trash can because it would appear that he means it.

“You said you were going to take a nap,” Nattie protests.

“didn’t say _where_.” Sans tosses the lightly used quiche and napkin in the trash, then turns back to them and winks. “you all good?”

Nattie makes a grimace of frustration that warms Sans’s soul.

“Did you like Tracy?”

“heh.” Sans winks again. “yeah.”

“Okay.” Nattie graces him with their usual bright smile, and it does lift his spirits a bit.

Sans just nods and shuffles around the corner until he’s behind the cobwebby counter of an abandoned shop he uses as an anchor, then turns left and takes another step into the last row of the tiered hall you’re lecturing in.

Sans finds a spot with his back to the wall and gets comfortable. You’re sorta near the...middle? Of this part. Heh. The one where you talk about how humans (which comprise the entirety of the crowd you’re currently addressing, except for him but you don’t know he’s here) will be absolutely certain they know what’s going on with monsters, but they won’t. He watches you emphasize that part, and go on to how it’s nothing that can be prevented, so you have to concentrate on how you’re going to react to misunderstandings _when_ they happen.

Sans’s soul gets all crinkly with bittersweet nostalgia. He knows personally that you’re speaking from experience, after all. He wishes humans came with a manual, like one of Papyrus’s dating or puzzle manuals, which are sometimes the same thing.

You talk a little bit about how monsters use the same words and even ideas as humans, but that’s because of all that human stuff that got underground. It’ll trick humans into believing monsters understand the concepts, but. It’s not that they _don’t_ , it’s that monsters don’t have social structures that match human ideas, because they’re different species.

Their bodies, their driving motivation, their essentials needs, are all inherently different. Everything they do and say follows outward from this difference. The endpoint of each thread can be near unrecognizable in substance while at the surface, appearing to be the same. You use the example of Mettaton’s line of “designer” products, including food, as something similar to a thing humans do, but for utterly different reasons.

Sans smiles. He loves watching you get into what you’re saying, your hands waving around in half-words and expressive gestures, just like they did when he first heard them in bed with you. He loves hearing you go on about it the same way you love listening to his trial runs of new jokes.

“I really can’t stress that enough,” you say, with that thick-ironic tone you get when you’re sure no one’s going to take what you say the way it’s intended. You say sometimes it’s a room full of people who come in with a whole passel of assumptions, then just use your words to polish them up as bright as possible instead of using it to challenge them, no matter how you put it.

Sans smiles gently to himself. He knows how that goes. Monsters are the same way a lot of the time.

There’s another forty minutes or so, and he watches you wrap it up and wind down patiently. Everyone claps, you look embarrassed in that cute way like you just remembered a bunch of people were watching you do that. He notices you skipped the question and answer portion, which you do sometimes if the first one of the...meeting, or whatever...goes poorly. Awww. Sans uses his tertiary vision to find you backstage. In the next moment, he’s nearby watching you rub your neck and sigh.

Sans shuffles into your line of sight, and your face goes blank as you try to process someone you know being somewhere you didn’t expect them. It’s gonna be a minute, and that’s...fine. He doesn’t go still and experience his entire internal wringer wondering belatedly if you’re going to be mad he came here...much, it’s just maybe you’re tired and busy and maybe him showing up’s just another thing you have to--

“Sans!!” you squeal, and Sans braces himself as you rush right up and grab him. His breath huffs out as his soul quivers, and he wraps you up in his arms as best he can and holds you tight.

Then you _squeeze_ him and literally go, “ _mmmmnnnnn_.”

Sans shudders out an indefinable tension he barely realized was there. Besides the audible fact that you’re just that happy to hold him, finally hugging you after _wanting to_ for so long is like sinking own into something warm and soft, like tasting something _so sweet,_ he…. Sans ducks his face and immediately sheds magic all over your neck, flustered to hell. He manages a hoarse whisper.

“heya, good lookin’.”

“ _Hey_ is for horses,” you say throatily, making him shudder again, “and _heya_ is a song my mom used to sing me to sleep with.”

“i got lullabies if you want em, darlin’.” Sans lifts up a bit from nuzzling you so he can also incidentally get his primary vision on a passing human who’s slowing down to stare. Sans narrows his sockets to shoot his _keep walking, buddo_ look at them, still petting between your shoulderblades with his back firmly to the wall.

“you got a room upstairs, right?

“Yeah.” You tell him which one, and before anyone else can get ideas, you’re both in it. You step back, but to his delight keep hold of his hand and drag him over to the unmade bed, then into it. With both your shoes still on. You pull the blanket overtop and tangle right up with him, make another moaning sound when you squeeze him. Plaintive, though.

“you okay, darlin’?”

“I can’t go home early,” you start with regret already in your voice, but Sans reassures you quickly.

“’m not...trying to get you to go anywhere with me.” He makes a little noise, holds you tighter. Rubs his face into your shirt, ignoring all the little plasticky-papery thingies attached to it. He’s trying to smell _you_ instead of _them_ , instead of the strangely chemical, empty smell of this human hotel. It’s not so far away from Ebott he needs one of the little things Alphie invented to help him breathe or anything, plenty of ambient magic to filter. For survival, if not comfort.

A deep breath, and he catches your scent. Ahh, there we go.

“just….missed you, is all.”

“I missed you, too. I get…lonely. But I’d rather just deal with it on my own if you can’t come.” Sans grunts before he can reel back the swell of conflicting feelings that gives him, thinking of you here and lonely without him. Makes him feel a little guilty, maybe. “Shortiepie, I _know_ you would come all the time if it wasn’t...” Dangerous, kinda. You trail off before saying so. Sans makes a noncommittal noise, and you continue in a slightly different vein. “I was _so_ happy to see you. You have no idea.”

“reckon i do,” Sans disagrees thickly, shuddering as you stroke down his spine over an over.

“When the hell did you start saying ‘reckon?”

“now, i guess?” Sans is nudging his face into your neck, so his voice comes out muffled. “you don’t like it?”

“Jury’s still out.” You go from stroking his bones over the clothes to wrapping your arms back around for another tight squeeze. There’s more groaning; Sans is just as glad not to hear a “judge” joke, even though it’s the first thing he thinks of. “God, you feel good,” you say instead, and Sans shivers. He likes that much better. He also likes the warmth of your breath, the faint thud of your heart, the soft give of your flesh over bones not so different from his own.

“Are you just stopping by?” you ask after a while, “or, uh, did you want to stay the night?”

Sans swallows down a little wibble in his soul. “not gonna bug you if i sleep here?”

“Of course not, I love that you’re here.” You exhale in regretful amusement, your sigh’s ricochet resulting in a puff of air that tickles his nasal cavity. He rubs it on you, one of the thingies pinned to your shirt scratching it handily. “I only have a schmoozy thing left to do in the morning, but I can’t afford to skip it. Otherwise I’d bail now, since you’re here.” Sans giggles. He does make it easier to skip town. “But you can stay for that too if you want.”

Sans grunts, gives you another squeeze. Eases up when he sees a little twitch in your brow that’s almost a wince. Then he smells himself, notices it’s...whew, been a little while. Okay, maybe you’re not the only one who forgets to take quite as good care of himself when you’re not around.

“this human place got a tub?”

You laugh, pull back to grin and cup his face.

“Room with a tub is in my tour rider, my darling groupie. Indeed, I simply _must_ show you this motherfucker.”

Turns out the tub here is real big and deep, and it’s lined with the bathing stuff you brought from home since you knew you were going to be here for a few days. As you run the bath, Sans mildly regrets having to clean himself with surface water. _An_ _d_ without his usual bath stuff… _or_ his special skeleton soap, come to think of it, but eh. He’ll manage. Maybe he’ll get you to do it. That might be fun.

You talk about some people you met here while the massive tub fills, offer some opinions about what other people are doing, then complain about some guy you really didn’t like. Sans hops in once its deep enough he won’t bruise his tailbone on the hard surface, and you join him once it’s waist deep for you. The water’s hot enough it takes you some time to inch in, and then you just soak together while it finishes. Sans turns it off for you once it starts to approach his chin, and a pleasant, comfortable silence ensues. Reminds him of a swimming pool, but hot. Oh. Like a jacuzzi, then. Heh. Mmmn.

Sans is maybe halfway asleep, steaming up his bones until they weep magic faintly like gluten from hard sticks of rice noodles, when something occurs to him. He cracks a socket open, sees you look about the same.

“babe.”

You grunt without opening your eyes.

“you got any clothes i c’n borrow? all i got’s those.” he means the pile on the floor, which are stinky with bone dust and some shed magic from when he was upset earlier. They’re also dotted all over with quiche shrapnel outside from when he cooked it, and inside where he pretended to eat it. If you don’t, he’ll probably have to groan his way over to grab em and haul em in here with. Then he’ll have to hope at least some of the smelly upset-magic comes out, as well as that they’ll hang dry by morning.

You sigh heavily, then surface up out of the mental bathzone to give him an indulgent look.

“You really didn’t plan this at all, did you?”

“...nope.”

“And no one told you explicitly you can’t come but you’re not _supposed_ to be here, riiight?”

Sans only shrugs for plausible deniability.

“Do you know what that means?” You don’t smile, but you’re _going_ to. Sans twitches in anticipation, which makes a weird scraping sound on whatever this tub is made of.

“hmm?”

Sans can’t hold in his tiny whoop of mellow excitement as you seize him, then drag his floaty bones right into your lap.

“Mmmmm _makeouts_ ,” you growl into his vertebrae, then duck back quickly when he can’t control his shudder. “ _Only_ kissy-kissy! _No_ teethy-breaky!!” you chide loudly. Holy _shit_ , you’re too cute. Sans loses it, giggling and wiggling and turning around to straddle you. Makeouts do indeed ensue, then slowly morph into some slightly sexy washing each other.

Sans savors each stroke of the unfamiliar bathing cloth you use on him, the plush cotton loops more textured than the ones in his bins at home. He shuts his sockets, touches his frontal bone to your forehead, and relaxes into it. The cloth lends an exotic sensation combined with your familiar, delicate touch. You pause at his gasp when you touch the inside of his pelvis with it, but he does a tiny headshake against your forehead. After his little quiche prank, it needs cleaning inside.

“’s a lil rougher than mine, but you’re always easy in there,” Sans whispers. You put some sauce on the way you do it, tracing and dabbing the rims of his sacrum holes. Sans wonders if the makeouts are turning into makeloves. He cracks a socket for an assessing glance, but nah. Just as well, since you’d hate that joke. Sans holds you and lets you wash all his bits, but you lean back after a particularly skillful stroke of his coccyx gets Sans’s soul interested. Sans shakes his head quickly; he feels _way_ too aware of how full of humans this place is. He wouldn’t be comfortable exposing himself here.

“my turn,” he says with a grin, and stealing the cloth back. It’s just as much fun the other way, you letting yourself sorta-float with the back of your neck hooked on the rim part. Sans keeps a hand on you to keep your body’s buoyancy in check so you don’t accidentally dunk yourself. He also makes sure to follow the order of operations when it comes to washing you. Butt’s always last. Heh.

“You’re always easy on me, too,” you say suddenly, opening your eyes. Sans glances up, makes a questioning noise. “Here, I mean,” you clarify, humping at where he washes you. “It’s like some people don’t get how sensitive the middle part is.”

Sans smiles, then chuckles as you blow a long, wet raspberry. He finishes cleaning your crevices, then gets the butt. You let him, but it makes you giggle and blush because of what he has been informed are ‘complicated butthole feelings’. These are something all humans apparently have; from what Sans has seen it’s certainly true, although _what_ the complicated feelings _are_ seems to vary.

“You’re a human-washing champion,” you snicker as your blush fades. “Home _and_ away, now. Thanks for not scrubbing my pisshole raw.”

“hey, we all got tender bits, right? not too hard to figure it out.”  
“You’d think,” you snerk, then grab the cloth and put it aside. Sans watches you wash your hair, happy he’ll get to play with it later. And he does, after you complain about the towel size, then explain that you’re done for the day and have someone bringing you food in a little while. Sans won’t be able to eat it, but he’s always got a little something of his own on him. He decides to wait til yours gets here while he guides your hair in the short twists you like, then remembers you never answered his question about the clothes.

“Well, you’re right that I brought two thingies for tomorrow,” you admit, scratching at your knees. Sans notices you didn’t do lotion, and he didn’t see any in the bathroom. You always do lotion. “Outfits. But it’s one regular stuff, and one _fancy_ stuff in case something fancy happens no one told me about.”

“gonna make me wear the fancy stuff, ain’tcha.”

You laugh like he expected, but then surprise him by shaking your head.

“No, actually. I mean, if you really want to be my arm candy in the morning?”

Sans just peers down at you and cocks a browbone.

“If I’m walking around here with _you_ , no one’s going to notice what _I’m_ wearing. But if you wear it, they’ll think you’re the fucking Monster Grand Vizier or something. It gives the wrong impression, you won’t like how it makes them act. You can cuff the pants.” You give him a little kiss; he wiggles happily. “You still want the sweater, right? It’s a cardigan. No hood.”

Sans hums a sleepy affirmative. He doesn’t like showing his arms, especially around so many humans.

“We can share jammies,” you offer. “You want the shirt or the shorts?”

Sans hums again. “shirt,” he decides. More coverage for his ribcage, because stuff’s more like to bug him stuck between ribs than his pelvis. Turns out it’s big and loose, covers him nearly to his knees. Sans hides in a blanket lump when the person comes with your food, then ends up telling you about the Tracy thing while he eats some sand and ketchup he had in his phone. He loves watching you pick the food apart, some kind of sandwich that you eat all the parts of separately.

“Awww, you _missed_ me,” you tease when he gets to the part about getting distracted. You nod sympathetically when he explains how Tracy misunderstood, and he can tell you know he was upset about it (still is, a little) even though he doesn’t tell you. Sans’s pranks aren’t meant to be mean unless...well. Unless he _means_ them to be mean. He leaves out the part where Nattie had to point out that missing you was making him act weird (and that it is apparently a habit), because he doesn’t want you to worry.

Sans gets up to throw away the surprising amount of waste from your meal, packaging and nonedible stuff, when he notices a pile of your things on the desk with some scribbled-on papers half-tucked underneath. Not your usual notes, there’s colors and stuff.

“what’s all these lil papers?” Sans asks, pointing. And the reason he did that instead of looking is also why you hurry over and shove them back in. You don’t say anything, but you blush and tap at them a second. He just waits. Then you pull one of them back out and give it to him.

He looks at it.

Narrows his sockets and brings it closer to his face.

“Okay! Okay, you don’t have to...”

Sans looks at you. “it’s, uh. grillbz?”

You clear your throat. “I can’t draw him! I know!” Your throw up your hands for emphasis. “I know!!!”

Sans feels all warm and squishy inside. “...but you did, though.”

“But it doesn’t LOOK like him!”

“i could tell it was him,” Sans protests mildly, admiring it some more. It’s real cute, even less like an orange bush in a bowtie than the first time he looked at it.

You sit on the edge on the bed heavily, rubbing the back of your neck. Then you take the paper, and Sans comes around to sit next to you. He likes how the bed dents in so he tilts against you. He nuzzles right up cozy like you’re watching a movie together, except it’s your drawing. He likes your art.

“I can’t draw things I can’t see, I guess.”

“…..huh.” Sans narrows his eyes at a few sketchy-wiggly lines, barely there on the paper. “what exactly….are you going for in there?” He points.

You exhale explosively, slumping. “I don’t know. It’s...I’m trying to draw something that looks like...how I know if Grillby’s smiling or not.”

Oh. It’s like the parts of Papyrus’s paintings you can’t see, probably. Sans frowns at the drawing, since whatever that is doesn’t look like Grillby at all.

He gets an amazing idea.

“c’n i try?”

“Seriously?” You gape at him. “You can’t really draw, though.”

“hey now,” he protests mildly, completely unoffended. “i can draw a snail.”

“A _hamburger_ ,” you snerk, sharing a nice giggle over that one. Sans takes the implement you hand him and frowns in concentration. He smooths the paper on your thigh for backing, draws light so it doesn’t poke through the paper. He does a quick little scrawl, then presents it to you.

“there ya go,” he announces with aplomb.

You look at him flatly.

“Sans.”

“mm?”

“This is a fucking _cartoon smiley face_ on Grillby’s head.”

“yeah.”

“It doesn’t look like him either!!”

“well...”

It doesn’t, but that’s not really what he means by it. Sans studies his careless-looking drawing inside your painstaking one.

“okay, so. nothin’ we could put on here _could_ look like grillby’s smile, cause it ain’t something you see with your eyes. but the drawing _is_ , right? so you have to put an idea into a symbol. made me think of the little glyphs i send folks.”

“The image-puzzle things?”

“yeah. it’s jus’ a tiny picture that means an idea. same as if i typed a whole word, ‘cept quicker cause ‘m lazy.” Sans huffs at his own little joke. “so. instead of trying to make a smile that looks like his, i took this part,” he indicates the outline of flames you made for his head and the glasses he puts on because he’s a total shit that Sans loves, “that _does_ look like him, and put the _idea_ of a smile inside there. cause that’s what his smile _is_.”

You’re quiet, so Sans looks up at your expression. Oops. He blew your mind again. He grins, feeling smug as hell. You stay quiet and thoughtful too, even as you both get back in the comfy bed, make a little nest out of pillow and blankets and settle in for a whole lotta doing nothing.

Something’s bothering him a little, though, and he lets it take its time to coalesce. Ahh. You didn’t take the meds he expected you to, based on how you were rubbing your neck before. That’s partly why he was so quick to suggest a bath earlier, but he thought you were just waiting to have something in your stomach, maybe. But you didn’t, and you don’t now.

Still, he doesn’t bring it up until later, cuddling and watching cartoons on your viewer. And he doesn't say anything, just produces two pills pinched between his bone fingertips, then makes them bunny hop suggestively up your arm.

You make a cranky noise.

He makes them hop around some more.

You sink back into the bedding until the pillow behind you flops overtop, covering your face.

“babe.”

He knows you won’t want to be pain-pissy at your snooty humans in the morning, and he can already tell by the amount of shifting around you’ve been doing that your pain is lingering, even after the bath. You won’t sleep well. Bad sleep and extra morning ouchies make Reader a bitchy human. Plus, you said you’re going to have to talk to that guy you didn’t like, since he….arranged this or whatever. Sans is fuzzy on the details, something to do with ‘funding’ which means human money is involved. It creates some sort of obligation on your part, which you very much do not like.

“They’ll make me _out_ of it tomorrow,” you whine from your self-imposed isolation.

“i’ll make you coffee in the morning if you’re groggy,” Sans coaxes.

“I only like _your_ coffee,” you lie. You like Papyrus’s coffee, too. And Muffet’s.

“that’s what i meant.”

Your face resurfaces, suspicion in every line. “How?”

“got my stuff with me,” he says mildly.

“Why?”

It’s because Redbird was having a hard time and wanted someone to do something special for her. So instead of letting her complain about Grillby’s coffee, which would have served the same purpose but also put Grillby in a snit, Sans had popped home real quick and shoved his coffee making stuff into his inventory. Then he got behind the bar and made it for her right there. While wearing Grillby’s bow tie, along with his (stolen fair and square) glasses taped to his skull.

“cause i want to,” he says instead. He wonders if you’re going to come up with ‘where’ and ‘what’ to go along with the ‘why’ and ‘how’s he already answered. If so, he's ready with more deflections, stories, and jokes. As many as it takes, and he doesn't mind if it's for the good cause of keeping his promises.

Instead, you take the pills. Sans was really expecting you to be more cranky about it. The gathered energy for the expected resistance transmutes into playfulness, even though he’s sleepy. He’s been sleepy all day, and soon it’ll be _time_ to sleep. With _you_ , which makes him even happier. You give him a cocked-eyebrow look as Sans crawls up on your body, moving to straddle you. He puts his hands flat to either side of your face, then starts pushing in to squish it.

“What are you doing?” you ask, words a little mushy from the squishing.

“lookin’ for your smile,” he informs you mildly. "gotta be around here somewhere."

“Sans, you’re squishing my face.”

“oh, my mistake.” Sans grins, then uses his hands to press the other way, stretching all your features out flat. He does it a little more, and your lips stretch and part slightly, making your top teeth peek out. He giggles, applies pressure upwards and giggles some more. It's a smile that looks nothing like _yours_. He better keep looking.

"eh heh heh _heh_ ," burbles up out of him, and his own surprised laughter cheers Sans further.

Your face is so soft and malleable, but not changeable or permeable. It’s cool. He feels muscles twitch underneath as you try to _not_ smile. Then your hands come up and try to do the same to him, but Sans's face doesn’t work the same way as yours. It’s made of hard bone that doesn’t move when it gets pressed on like a fleshy monster’s would. In fact, his face doesn’t move at all...

Unless he moves it.

You make a distorted squawk of surprise as Sans does his best to make his face move how it would if you _could_ press it the way he does yours.

“Oh my god,” you chortle helplessly. “Are you doing that on purpose?”

“no way,” Sans chuckles, warm all the way through. “you’re squishing my face!” He uses his tertiary vision to try and get an idea of what this must look like, but it doesn’t really work that way. It probably looks super weird, especially considering Sans’s smile is pretty much stuck where it is, but it’s okay if it’s just for you. He tucks the corners of his mouth as much he can when you push in, changes the shape of his sockets so the sides cave in, kinda. He mimics whatever you do on your face too, and it’s...oh, god. It’s _really_ funny.

You end up playing the face-squishing game together for a really long time, the laughter finally wringing the last of the jitters and weirdness out of both of you. Also, your drugs kick in. The expression left after having all of the ones you’re capable of together are two soft smiles that match perfectly. Equally sleepy, too, although yours is certainly medication-aided.

You go through the motions of putting a show back on as Sans rests his skull on your blanket-padded shoulder, but Sans pays attention as your blinks get slow and fluttery. You don’t object as he makes your hand do the thing that dismisses your viewer, then brings your fingers to his teeth for a gentle press. A kiss.

“ready?” he breathes, closing his sockets around eyes that won’t focus anymore.

There’s an affirmative grunt, and Sans lets his magic sync with your body. Like a hug he gives you with his body-between, locking in swift and familiar. All those little bits that your body is made of take the invitation his body extends to mimic the movements of his magic. Sans takes a breath, and lets his eyes relax to fill his skull as he exhales. Your brain’s patterns take notice, decide to follow suit.

Then you’re both out like a light.


	11. in quietness, in time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never get so attached to a poem  
> you forget truth that lacks lyricism;  
> never draw so close to the heat  
> that you forget that you must eat.  
> -[Joanna Newsom; “En Gallop”](https://youtu.be/Shm6phT5vt0)

“got a surprise for you.”

“Y-yeah!! Just w-wait til you s-see it!!”

Alphys is just as excited as Sans. When they open the door to the nap room….

Your face goes soft and still; Sans’s soul flutters with joy. Several of the piles of trash and videotapes are higher, because they’ve been pushed against the wall to make room for a smallish mattress next to the lumpy couch that puts your back out.

“’s for you,” Sans mumbles shyly. Then he points at it, just in case.

“I love it,” you gush, wiping your eyes the way you do when you have a big feeling, even when there’s nothing to wipe like now. Then you pick your way across the floor and lie down on it with a soul-deep sigh. “It’s perfect.” After a minute or two, you look up. “I’m all set, fellas.”

Sans chuckles, feels warm inside. Of course you’re going to test it out immediately. It’s why he loves doing stuff for you so much, gives you little surprises and gifts when you let him. Immediate, one hundred percent commitment. Maximum enjoyment, like it’s your last day on earth or something.

Sans grins at Alphys in thanks for the idea; she nods in satisfaction and heads off to get started on this round of marathon checks. Bleh. Sans comes closer to where you’re hunkered like a little lump of heaven, having already yoinked one of the blankets down off the couch and curled right up. Your eyes glisten in the ambient magic light as you watch Sans unpack your stuff for the stay, setting it down close enough that you won’t have to get out of your new nest for meds, water, or various et ceteras.

He lingers there for a minute, neither of you talking while he strokes your hair fondly. After a few more minutes he blushes again, then tenderly touches your lips with his distal phalanges; a goodnight kiss, even though it’s daytime overground. Sans shuts the door on his way out, only reluctantly putting a barrier between you. But he knows it’s for the best if he and Al get to shit talking, so they don’t wake you on accident.

Sans absently shuffles to his station, mind still full of you huddled up in your cozy new spot. He brings up the readings for the CORE(subsec>3359), opens about 50 nested quantities and then repeats the process on the left to bring up last round’s readings. He wasn’t kidding when he told you it’s monotonous. He looks to see if each number is the same, and if it’s different he marks down how much, finds out why, and files a report.

He glances at the corner display to see where Al’s at. She’s already kicking his ass, balls-deep in subsec 3376, the monitor recording the movement of her eyes to denote ‘completed’ rather than her having to use the mouse or keyboard to do it. Those, they use to navigate on a much larger scale. They even made the system able to also recognize Sans’s eye movements ages ago, despite them not actually being physical entities. That had been a lot more fun than this is.

Sans shrugs out of half his hoodie to bare an arm, plants his elbow on Al’s MewMew Big Boobies wristpad, and hovers his whole left hand over the keyboard. He uses all the joints bending inward in to tap the key shortcuts that have preset reasons for shit built in. That way he can just hit one button to explain why the numbers are different instead of having to type up a full report from scratch every time. Since there are over three hundred of those, they’re nested like A>Z>7>A>P= critical deathdick explosion or whatthefuckever.

He uses the mouse to start scrolling, which happens continuously until/unless he hits a discrepancy. After about ten seconds he realizes he’s balking hard, hasn’t even clicked the setting that doubles the scroll length, much less tripling it (which for him is basically cruising speed, between three and five checks per second. Al’s even faster, but she needs more breaks.).

His work’s flawless as always (as is necessary), but he’s going at a snail’s pace. Sans sighs, scratching his broad chin on his shoulder irritably. He knows Alphys’s display is showing Sans’s pace (and since she knows him so well, his mood), and he tries to snap out of it. He _really_ does. But he’s cranky and resentful and doesn’t want to be sitting here. He wants to be in bed with you, and his soul won’t let his mind concentrate. Not until he lets his feelings boss him around, so he resents those too. When another fifteen seconds goes by without his checks getting any faster, Sans looks over right when Alphys knows he will.

Alphys doesn’t look away from the screen as she makes a gesture close to the desktop, but Sans feels magic seethe across his skull anyways. He glances to see where her next pagebreak is. He knows where she’s at in her task, and exactly how quickly she can go. He times his answering gesture to coincide with her eyes flicking over at him to see it.

Sans feels embarrassed and relieved in equal measure, just like always. He knows she doesn’t mind, but he can’t help but feel like she _should_. He just sat down, for fuck’s sakes, and if he was gonna be like this, why didn’t he just stay with you in the first place?

But that’s the thing, Sans considers as he carefully saves his place and puts all the nested folders back into themselves. Then he sighs, paddles his little wheely-stool away from his station and stands up. Sans never knows he’s gonna get like this beforehand. It just happens.

He was just with you, and he already wants to be with you again.

He peeps in hesitantly. All the imagined rejections and gnawing insecurities simmering in his weird, twisty little soul unwind once he sees you. You don’t say anything, but as soon as you look up at him, eyes glistening like a contented little forest creature, he can tell you’re glad he’s here.

He wishes he could express with words how much it means to him that you never make him feel clingy. In fact, you don’t even _notice_ it until it would be at the point where the tilt of Papyrus’s grin would send him slinking off; Grillby’s tint would scald him with its unintentional censure; Alphys’s absent expression would send him scurrying from the lab with magic seething across his skull, hood pulled up to hide it.

Reading people the way Sans can doesn’t make for a comfortable existence.

But you make him comfortable in ways you don’t even realize. Maybe it’s like that thing you say about how his face doesn’t stress you out. First time you said it, it seemed odd. Now, years later, he understands exactly what you mean. Because the better he gets to know you...

 _Yours_ doesn’t stress _him_ out.

Maybe someday he’ll finally be brave enough to share that with you. Make you feel it inside. But for now he’s content to be allowed access to your nest, arms already open and so very warm as he curls up against your torso. You cover him with the blanket fussily enough to make him melt, then squeeze him when he shivers at the temperature change. That makes it feel even better. Shivers are his body’s way of petting itself, bones moving to rub the magic between them and vice versa. Happens sometimes when he’s emotional because it’s soothing, when he’s excited or feeling sexy, and sometimes just when he warms up quickly. Stuff he never thought about til he started being with you.

“Is something bothering you, sweetie?”

“…don’t wanna be at work,” he grumbles. “what?” he adds in response to your little hum.

“You kind of do, though,” you say after a minute.

Welp. That’s what he gets for admitting he likes numbers sometimes. Sans pulls back to give you the look you call Buttface.

“It’s like getting little kids or a dog into the tub,” you continue outrageously. “It’s like wrestling a bear to get you in here, but once you’re in, you’re happy as a clam.”

“i wanna divorce,” Sans drawls.

“I’d have to _marry_ you for that,” you giggle the rote response; still makes Sans shiver hard with bawdy playfulness. It seems to energize you, and Sans makes a faint, happy little noise in his skull as you wriggle down to nuzzle and whuffle at ribs through his shirt. He hopes he smells okay, because you smell fantastic. He thinks you figured out how much he likes that one lotion, its spicy flower scent that harmonizes with your naturally appealing baking-bread smell. It’s so _good_ , and you’re soft like bread, too. His hands find the nape of your neck on their own, those tiny-fine hairs where ‘bare’ skin transitions to hair. The best parts of your body are like that, that soft little spot on your inner thigh, the Underbutt, under your….arms…. Sans gasps as you nudge up his shirt with your face, pressing a saucy little kiss to one of his ribs.

“you want me, darlin’?” he asks, quiet so he doesn’t embarrass you.

You peek up. You definitely want him. “I don’t know, just...here?”

Sans smiles down at you, trying to suss out your worry. “she’s not gonna come in, cause i wanted some time with you,” he tries. That clears some of it, but not all. “this is a private room,” he adds, even though he thought you knew that. Al brings Undyne here sometimes too, but she usually only can last an hour or two before she starts accidentally breaking things. “place for me n al to do private stuff when we gotta be here all the time. this’s _my_ place.” He’s definitely told you this before. That time in the kitchen, when you were kicking around the trash on the floor. “all my stuff’s here. me and alphie’s, but she won’t come in right now.”

“Okay,” you say, but a sliver of concern stays, and your eyelashes flutter when his fingertips brush the front of your shirt. You don’t want to come out right now, so he just slides his arms around you and pulls you into a hug. A _sexy_ hug. Sans lets his hands roam, marveling at the responsive softness of your skin.

He loves the way it changes texture under his touch, loves your deepening breaths, your slow undulations, the way your arms tighten as he slips his fingers into your sweatpants and finds slick heat. Oh, he _likes_ that. You wanted him already, maybe. Soon as he laid down….or maybe you were thinking about this _before_ then, while Sans was working.

Looking all cute and thinking about _him._ Lying there on your new special bed he got you, wanting him to come in and make you feel good just like this… Sans buries his face in your neck, the permeable magic that holds his body together starting to turn around its axis. He exhales shakily as it wavers its familiar caress all through his insides, pleasure drawn from his core as your hot skin drags along his bones.

“stars, you’re sexy,” he gushes, lost in the slick feel of you. He takes his time, cupping light with his palm while you kiss all over his neck and jaw. Your gasp cools the damp you leave on his bones when he brushes your little human nub, all perky under his sensitive fingertips. You hum when he glides around it, move get more friction but he’s in the mood to tease. In the mood for something else too it seems, when you reach into his waistband to stroke his iliac crests.

“do me, too,” he pants, giving you a nice tickle where you like it best for encouragement. He wants you to touch inside his pelvis, especially the spots between his pubic bones, hip joints, and along his sacrum where his secret bits hang out. You do it from the top this time, and Sans sighs at the full feeling your hand in his pelvis gives him. You both lie still, dreamily concentrating on touching each other, sharing breath as Sans starts his slow, don’t-have-to-think-about-it rhythm with his fingers. Takes a while for you to get there like that, and he doesn’t speed up til you’re close. Lets him drift off in the feeling of your palm pressing and gliding along his ischiums, then you delight him with a sneaky finger on the other hand diddling his sacroiliac joint. He tilts in anticipation as you move closer to his pubis, because you’re gonna do that thing where you get it from the back.

There’s a big jolt of sensation when you touch the symphysis, and Sans’s spine curls hard to double him over. He muffles a hiss in your shoulder, but keeps up what he’s doing on you.

“do it real light,” he whispers shakily, concentrates to relax his body. “’m sensitive today, dunno why….” You do it light, but it’s still more intense than pleasurable. After the second time Sans’s hips jerk away, you stop and rest your hand on his hip.

“sorry, darlin’,” Sans says, feeling flustered. “guess it’s not happening for me today, y-” You touch his wrist, and he stops.

“Can I lick it for a minute?” you ask coyly into his cervical vertebrae, and have to pull back when Sans can’t suppress the shiver it gives him. He won’t say no to that, especially since your mouth can go easier than your hands. And it does, once you shuck his shorts away then lie down on his legs, ‘trapping’ them as your head ducks down to his pubis. It juts out slightly when his legs are straight, not like you have to move leg meat out of the way to get to it. He’s just bones, and that’s just fine with both of you.

Sans hums breathily as you lave his pubic tubercles with the flat of your tongue, perfect and broad and slick, just how he likes it when he’s sensitive. Air huffs through his nasal cavity and teeth as you pleasure him; feels a bit strange, feels tighter than usual but it’s a sexy feeling, it’s _good_. He gathers blanket up to squeeze in his fists at first, then moves his arms up over his head, legs shuddering as he hugs his skull with his own hard arms.

The odd tension increases as you circle your tongue, melting softness just textured enough to create a tiny amount of friction. Sans’s magic agitates until it practically whirls through him, legs juddering hard under your grounding weight. He can’t keep in a quiet moan when you curl your tongue around, when you close your lips on him and suck gently.

“babe,” he pleads, needing you back, needing to kiss and hold you some more. You press lips there in goodbye and crawl back up.

Then, when you kiss his teeth, realization hits. He can’t smell or taste himself. Sans goes still, and you pull back to see what’s up. No wonder he was so sensitive when you used your fingers.

“’m not wet,” he breathes, cupping your face with his hands. He can see you think it’s one of his usual things, maybe a new problem that could upset him. He shakes his skull, searching for words.

“no, this…” Sans’s magic tightens with a strange welter of emotions until amusement wins, because he thinks of a way to get it across. “hey, i hear it happens to a lotta monsters,” he grins, winking and sliding his hands to your shoulders. “sometimes ya might have a lil trouble gettin’ wet,” he adds, squeezing your upper arms. “folks understand.”

His body’s having a _normal_ problem. And it’s happened before, just never with you. The counterintuitive relief-joy it fills him with builds inside him… enough that it would usually come out somewhere, but it doesn’t. It stays _in_ , almost like a vibration that dissolves back into his body instead of releasing. Sans grunts with the strange tension it leaves. It’s like...horny, maybe. Magic coming out feels _real_ good when it’s for sexy reasons, so this is….

“’m having a good time,” Sans whispers. “feels like… _teasing_ , sorta. gets me worked up.” Your grin is both sudden and remarkably naughty, and ohhh, Sans knows _that_ look. You’re getting _ideas_. Welp, this shitty workday just became the best day ever.

“You want me to _make_ it wet there?”

Sans nods eagerly, wiggling happily as you kneel up and take your pants off. You hunker back over him, and he can’t resist wrapping his legs and arms around you, already trying to line your soaked folds up with his pubis. He tightens his legs, peering down and adjusting, then craning his neck back in anticipation. God, he can’t wait. It’s gonna feel _so_ good when you get wet on him, this is--

A high, breathy moan just blurts right out of Sans when you grip his ilium, preventing the slick nether-kiss he’d been anticipating at the last second. You do a growly little chuckle into his neck, then delicately click your teeth on his collarbone.

A rush of titillation fills Sans until his skull swims with it. Oh, oh _stars_. You _never_ play like this with him, not...not with holding. Panting with sharp-sudden excitement, Sans makes a more hesitant attempt, and you hold him again. His arms and legs scrabble lightly for purchase, but then you lie down on his ribcage, pressing him into the mattress just in time for a rich, delicious shiver. Your weight increases the pressure between his bones by at least double, pushing another shaky moan out of his skull.

“Shh,” and oh god, your voice is all sibilant-sweet and playful, he’s gonna fucking dust, “you don’t want anyone to _hear_ you...”

“oh fuck,” Sans coughs faintly. Yeah, he doesn’t give a shit and neither does Alphys, but holy crap, you make it sound like the kinkiest thing _ever_. Of course you’d bust this game out when you want him to be _quiet_ , when he, he can’t even let it _out_ because his magic won’t shed…. Sans tries to keep his voice down, but his breath sobs and hitches as he wriggles under you, desperation making him bolder as you move with him.

Slow, gentle wrestling as he tries to get some contact and you prevent it; Sans is a lot stronger than he looks but this isn’t about that. It’s about Sans wanting you more and more until he can’t think about anything else, until he forgets everything except for much he needs to _feel_ you, how much he loves you, he _trusts_ you.

Feels perfect; feels _safe_ as you hold him tight at the pelvis, grip his spine between his shoulderblades. He nearly swoons as your hot mouth licks and nibbles all along his jaw. He moans when you dart your tongue into the sweet spot of his fused mandible, and you pull back to shush him again. His sockets won’t even shed when you tell him how he’s lovely, how good he feels all shaking and needy like this. Sans chokes off a whimper as the feeling just keeps _building_ in him. He opens his dry eyes so you can see how dilated they are when you pull back from kissing him breathless. He wants you to _see_ how you make him feel as he paws gamely at your arms, tries to move his pelvis to no avail.

“You’re so _cute_ when I’m teasing you...” you say, rough and throaty. It’s all Sans can do to muffle his desperation against your shoulder, femurs trembling hard with longing and unaccustomed tension.

He can’t help crying out when you finally press yourself against bone, the prickle-tickle of fuzz with honeyed heat between, firm nub seeking friction with a hunger that matches his. You’re too busy groaning into his vertebrae to shush him now, gripping him hard as you find your favorite spot on his pubis to rub off on. The magic agitates there and all through his body, swelling in his joints until they finally get hot and relaxed. Stars, you’re _here_ , you’re holding him and loving him and feeling good together, just like he wanted. Your movements stimulate his magic, and it responds with increased agitation. A cycle of pleasure that gets bigger and bigger, but doesn’t really have a trajectory like genitalia does. Not all of em, though.

Sans hums quiet and shaky as you move together, thinking about how this feels when he has his little anemone-thing here. It’s all soft petals and tiny tentacles that squirm around happily when they get rubbed with soft things. And you make the _weirdest_ face when he uses one of the more controllable tentacles to slide under the bit of skin that covers your nub. He wiggles it around in there, right against the tender tip of it. You twitch and gasp like you’re about to either sneeze or ask him to stop…right up until you come instead. Then you get ‘revenge’ by going down on him until it sheds out. For him, it feels a lot like licking only-bones when it’s there, just _more_. He’s _always_ in the mood for that one, just like he’s always in the mood for _this_.

Ooh. And now…he’s in the mood for kisses. Sans takes his hands on a lingering journey over your warm, heaving body, then delicately cups your face. You follow his guiding, and Sans revels in the heat and moisture of your breath. His breath creaks out when your lips touch his sensitive teeth, a steady press, then parting to slick your tongue over them. Sans gets excited again, takes a little nip at it. Groans when you tap your teeth in return, miming a bite to his mandible.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” you whisper against his face, and Sans whimpers your name at the thrilling vibration it sends through his already-agitated magic. Then something else rises up inside him, and Sans has to bite back more noises because here it comes. He’s sure it gonna happen this time, and you let him grab your ass and grip your shoulder. You give him room to move under you, holding steady for his suddenly insistent humping as it builds and quivers at the cusp.

Sans hugs you tight and rubs _hard_. Then his spine arches, his exhale creaking with release as his pubis finally wells up with magic and dribbles onto his sacrum. He whines when it slips into one of the foramen, a slow-sinking heaviness through the resistance inside. Penetrating. A blunt pressure like _pushing_ , like when you tongue his tightest spaces...like when his genitalia comes out a certain way, and you fuck him in there. Sans eases back with a shaky sigh and lets you take over, rubbing slick and hot and firm right in Sans’s little crease. He sheds again, and he deliriously imagines you fucking him as it sinks into his little holes.

You use fingers or that toy he likes sometimes to do it, but those don’t get wet like you do here. He loves when you use fingers and mouth at once on him, that wet-hot-pushing combo that drives him nutty. Wonders if it’d feel like that if your body had a thing that sticks out here, like some humans do. Sans has a little fantasy about that. If you put it in him, pushed out all your wet human stuff right inside him with it. He used to be sure if you did, he wouldn’t like it. He knows better now. He’d not only let you, he’d fucking _love_ it... might love it almost as much as this.

Human fluids use to bother him. A lot. Blood still does; its reasons for coming out are almost always bad ones. And he used to feel that way about this, too. But now he _knows_ how you feel when it does, and why. A lot closer to how monsters do than he ever imagined. And he doesn’t care if it’s a human thing or a you thing, because you’re the only human he’s interested in knowing that about.

He knows all about how you hold your breath when you’re close to coming, start moving insistent and jerky but still so easy with him. _Stars_ , that’s good. Sans makes a tiny noise, hugs you tighter and spreads his legs more. He’s ready for you, wants to feel you do it all over him.

“yeah, f...fuck me, darlin’,” he rambles, thoughts bobbing and swirling like leaves on a sea of pleasure and lust. “….thass it, harder, come on me...” You suck on his neck, gagging your climactic cry with bone as your hips jerk, grip tightening as you use his broad, thick pelvis like a toy, getting yourself off hard. Sans feels dizzy with how much he loves this, loves _you_. Layers of every time swirling and swimming in his mind-body-soul as you slow, panting.

“….more...” Sans pleads softly, his magic swelling his joints as he begs with his hips, too. You don’t have magic to coax his out with its scent and taste, but the way you touch him makes it rise up and spill over where you call it anyways. His body comes out to follow your touch, just like his soul. He feels it right _here_ , right at the crux of his pubis where his body kept its secrets for so long… and not just there, but…

Sans lets his neck crane back, a stuttering gasp sucking in through his teeth. Memory hits him hard: the first time you flipped him over and did this on his sacrum. Pleasure so sudden his genitalia had emerged almost violently, shoved hard against the mattress with your weight and movement. He’d climaxed in seconds with a hoarse little scream, groaning dazedly as the whole thing shed out completely right after. Remembering makes the tense bud of magic between Sans’s pubic bones dilate hot and quick; for a second it feels like his genitalia might come out right _now_ , but then…

“oh m-my god _..._ ” Sans whispers, breath stuttering as his gentle release drenches you both. “m- _mhh_ …!” There’s no tension, just Sans’s body shuddering apart and melting, pouring out of/into himself/you endlessly.

He caresses your back over and over as it happens, one of his legs sliding off your waist as his dilated magic loosens his joints to pudding. _Stars_ , that feels amazing. Ohhh, shit. You lean against his pelvis and rock it heavily under yours, pressing to spread the sensation of loosened, overflowing magic all through his bottom half. Sans’s soft, vocal exhale keeps going until the last of his air escapes in a soft little cough. Oh god, that’s the best feeling _ever_ , and the last dribble escaping actually stokes the beginning of hunger in his magic. He started dry, and you fucked him hungry without even bringing his _soul_ out, goddamn. Sans paws your shoulder with sloppy, sated awkwardness.

“m….mmh. okay, m’ good.” You roll to the side, and Sans is already clinging to you, hugging as hard as he can which right now isn’t very. Your stroke and kiss him as his body settles down, and he quietly admits that he needs a snack after that one. He’s a little shy about it, but you grab the snacks he’d placed nearby earlier and feed him as tenderly as a monster would. You make a little joke about his forethought. He giggles and blushes; you say nice things and fuss.

“Seemed like something good happened for you at the end there,” you inquire once the crumbs have been brushed or licked away. Sans settles in, decides he deserves a nap, too. He’s all noodly now.

“thought about that time you flipped me over,” he replies softly, but your face still gets that look. He huffs and shakes his skull, because you always worry about stuff like that. He’d specifically _asked_ you to do it ‘all over him’, but sometimes when he reacts a certain way….heh. He’d been loud and jerking around under you, leaky and weepy afterward, and sometimes that worries you. He’s said everything there is to say about it, he wishes you could…

Something new presents itself.

“hey.”

You look at him, and he brushes his sternum.

“i think about that quite a bit when i’m, uh. having private time.” He watches the thoughts coalesce behind your eyes.

“Why?”

Sans smiles, makes the gesture that means his genitalia.

“if i _want_ it to come out…that can make it happen.”

“Oh,” you whisper. “So you can...touch it?”

“mmhmm,” he confirms, then yawns. He bunches up the soft sweater he has in all his bedrooms for precisely that sort of thing, then grinds down on it hard. He keeps his fingers in his soul so he can keep feeling just how he did that time, all sexy-thrilled-scared-safe, then he comes on the sweater. It’s nice. Sans shuts his sockets and puts his face against your arm, feels his mind starts to loosen into sleep. “like th….thinkin’ about all the times we do stuff….gonna think about this one a bunch, i kn….know that...”

Sans swims for a bit, watching some cool fish that have light-up fins. He says hi, but they’re kinda rude….oh. Nope, those’re _rocks_ , and it’s not water, this is...space. Mars. Still scares him a little, real cold here sometimes. He shivers, sings a little song to remind all these rocks not to be lonely. It’s okay, nothing lasts forever. That scares him worse though, so he checks on his brother real quick.

“It’s okay, Sans,” Papyrus says absently in their special font with no name whatsoever. He’s making soap again in a few years, which he does outdoors because of the smell. He lifts a boiling-pot nearly as tall as he is, sets it down over the pit of fire magic Grillby and Toriel are tending together. “You’re just sleeping (compromised mind). Why don’t you watch me for a while, that usually makes you feel better.” So he does. His restless, ceaseless vision finding a nice, safe spot to chill out until he starts to gather up his scattered, dilated mind/eyes, the infinite hyperbola slowly re-cohering into a person. Skeleton.

Sans.

This unsettling transition is always a bit of a stressful time for Sans, especially when he’s alone. Feels confused and sometimes scared, but he's warm and hears voices that his soul recognizes as not only loved ones, but special. Special-to-him people are nearby, and Sans relaxes, feels _safe_ again _._ Mmm. He’s on your new mattress in the back room of The Hole, all tucked up with lots of blankets and pillows…but he can hear talking like you’re in here with him.

Aww. You left the door open for him because you wanted to get up, and he doesn’t like waking up alone. You doing that makes him feel as cared for as if he’d woken in your arms.

Sans opens his sockets, lets his eyes coalesce at their own pace. Words start to form out of the morass of colors and feelings his waking-up mind is made of. You and Al are having a chat...you’re a little worked up about something, sounds like. Work stuff and not-exactly-work stuff. Ethics. You and Alphys like to seriously chew that fat over sometimes. It’s one of Al’s not-exactly-a-hobbies, which makes sense considering everything she’s been through.

“It’s like, I don’t know. Frustrating! I’ll be giving a talk about dogs, and someone asks me ‘Oh, should I walk my dog on a leash?’, and I’ll tell them yeah, of course. Tell them why they should, maybe.” You sigh. “Then all of a sudden a week later I’ll have someone screeching at me about how they walked their _goldfish_ on a leash and it _died_ , and how could I mislead and trick people like that, and basically how I’m an animal abuser by proxy.”

“T-that doesn’t m-make sense.”

“Of course it doesn’t!!” He can practically hear your arms being thrown in the air. “You can’t treat a goldfish like a dog, and the whole talk was about dogs in the first place! Why would anyone think this was some kind of universal law?? But no one cares! Twice as many people show up to watch me murder goldfish, then send me nasty view-messages when I _don’t_. The rest are sending me hatemail for ‘letting controversy and drama overtake the dog content’, as if what other people are doing is somehow _my_ responsibility.”

“Th-that’s so weird,” Alphys muses. “Do they think y-you have mind c-control powers?”

It’s quiet for a second before you answer. Sans reaches under the couch to pull out his bad nap case here, wipes off his sacrum and pubis before lackadaisically pulling his clothes back on.

“It’s more complicated than that,” you reply seriously. “Let’s just say a lot of people are used to social hierarchies where you can’t disagree or correct anyone in the in-group. And others where you… _have_ to do that to anyone “under” you, come up with reasons to correct them, or no one else will listen no matter what you say. Everything has to be really black-and-white, the best or the worst. You have to like one thing and hate another, and make sure to act like it really loudly all the time. To perform it in front of everyone, have the right reactions to everything even when you don’t know anything about it, not really. It’s...not good.” You sigh. “You can’t learn or grow. You have to just be right all the time, even when you’re wrong.”

Al’s quiet for a long minute.

“H-how do y-y-you deal with that?” she asks, like the answer’s really important to her. Sans, of course, knows that it is. And why. There’s a reason Alphys is one of the only monsters underground besides Sans and Papyrus who can really keep secrets from other monsters.

“I don’t,” you answer bluntly like he knew (hoped) you would. Sometimes you can’t help yourself, get back into it and end up all weird in the head for a week, or a month. “Diane filters all that stuff for me, checks to see if there’s anything I need to _really_ worry about.”

“It’s g-good to know this,” Alphys replies quietly, “e-e-even though I have to admit, it k-kind of s-stresses me out a l-lot.”

Sans stretches one more time and gets up, heads to the kitchen to heat up some water. He makes three bowls of noodles, smiling gently as he follows your meandering conversation. Sans hasn’t even gotten started yet, and it’s Alphys’s first break. When you’re here she gets to chatting, and Sans doesn’t mind making her a little something to fuel that big brain of hers. Heh heh heh. She always comes up with some new joke about how he doesn’t have one whenever he says that, so he makes sure to say it a lot. Also, because it’s true and she needs to hear it more often.

You look up with a bright smile when he comes in with the bowls, but then you turn back at Alphys because she’s asking another question. He sits next to Al on the couch and hands out the food, setting yours down on a chair because it’s too hot for you to touch yet. Alphys’s scales protect her from the heat, but she still has to wait because the inside of her mouth doesn’t have scales, after all. Heh. Be funny if it did, though.

“So, a bunch of people see others getting a lot of attention for criticizing, and they want to get in on that,” you’re saying animatedly. “Thanks, Sans. The content doesn’t matter; they just want to be seen saying negative things that get attention. Or to do the hierarchy thing I said before. So they start saying stuff like, ‘well pets are like family for a lot of people, so that means you’re basically a murderer! And suddenly there are five new nodes on the viewnet all titled ‘so-and-so, known animal abuser and literal murderer, is and always has been the worst’.”

“That s-s-sounds like a stretch,” Alphys chortles.

“Oh, it is! But it’s not about what they’re saying, remember? It’s about...being perceived as the person who knows what’s really going on, or….I don’t know. Getting people to pay attention for the sake of it.”

“H-how does that function in p-p-practicality? It s-seems like in the end, it d-d-doesn’t h-have anything to d-do with you.”

You let out a big sigh. “You’re right. It kind of doesn’t; it’s like being an object, or a fictional story someone’s analyzing and dissecting. It’s actually pretty dehumanizing if I think about it too much, so I don’t. For me, it ends up being like...” You absently touch the side of the bowl, tapping to note it’s still too hot to eat. “A year later, you’ll tell your name to someone at a conference and someone will be like, ‘oh, like the goldfish murderer?’ Like that person could never actually really exist, and if they did, they could never be _here_. And you’re tearing your hair out in frustration, yelling, ‘SOMEONE ASKED ME A QUESTION ABOUT _DOGS_ ONCE!!’”

Alphys and Sans both giggle; you seem confused, but Sans smiles gently and shakes his skull. It’s just because you look and sound so much like Papyrus when you do that. You continue, reassured that it’s nothing bad.

“And people just giggle in the corners about how crazy you’re acting, because your reaction is the only thing that matters, no matter how much garbage other people throw at you. And you get so fucking tired of _explaining_ it all the time. As if you’re the one who has to justify what other people say about you?”

“I k-kind of get that.” Alphys sighs heavily. “M-monsters tend to…spread out s-social responsibility? That thing w-we talked about before, how you have to a-ask someone _else,_ and it has to be the _right_ someone e-else, if you want the real answer instead of the p-p-polite one. It can g-get ridiculous p-p-pretty quickly.”

“Well, humans are just as ridiculous. Even different types of humans have different ways of being completely fucking obtuse. And they’re so determined to stay that way!” You sigh. “People say they want to behave ethically, but in reality they just want a list of rules to follow so no one can ever criticize their actions. Someone to boss them around so they don’t have to think about things or make hard choices. That isn’t ethics. That’s a _cult_.”

Sans stretches and yawns; you rub your face tiredly as Alphys leans out to give your shoulder a pat. You smile, seeming heartened.

“I guess I’m just disillusioned. So many people I thought were sincerely invested in humans and monsters interacting successfully….they were really just playing these kind of social games that have nothing to do with what they’re saying. They could have been talking about their favorite show, or trading recipes. But what really mattered was who they said it to, and who they excluded. Coming up with convoluted, tortured reasons to make one person seem bad, and another seem better than everyone else. It’s about controlling how other people...perceive you, I guess. Controlling how their friends act, who else they’re allowed to be friends with, the shows they watch and what they wear, just like some dime-a-dozen abusive college boyfriend. Who the fuck wants _that_ crap in their life?”

“A l-lot of people, f-from what you’ve told me,” Alphys snickers, and you share a bitter laugh together. Sans feels sad that you’re frustrated, but it gives him a good feeling deep in his soul that you have someone close to talk about this stuff with. Someone who really gets their teeth into these kind of problems, can sort of...talk shop about it, he supposes.

Sans is an academic, sure. At least he is from what you’ve said. But he’s the hermit kind, papers appearing anonymously that no one really understands anyways, but like to talk about as if they did. Which is kinda ironic, but there it is. He abruptly remembers his noodles, starts stuffing a few into his narrow mouth with the bowl under his chin. Alphys starts eating too, but yours is still too hot so you ask if they’ll check out a lecture you’re working on.

“course we will,” Sans drawls happily, tilting his chin up like a bird to get the noodles to dissolve into his magic.

You do that thing with your viewer that breaks it up into a bunch of screens that follow you around and move where you point, each one displaying ideas and their relationships with each other, moving in a visual pattern that goes along with your speech. Sans manages to break his gaze away from you long enough to share an enamored look with Alphys; you always look your hottest when you’re explaining something. You talk much more quickly like this, less hesitant and almost no filler words. He knows you’ve seen recordings of yourself like this, but that you avoid watching them if you can because they make you self-conscious.

You say it’s a “front”, but really it’s just a facet of yourself you save for this context. There’s something special (sexy) about seeing it deployed just for Sans and Alphys, a vulnerable peek inside the hard shell you put around yourself for speaking in front of an audience.

Hmm. That’s the difference, it occurs to him. In some ways you’re helping to fill a role Frisk was meant to, but their role is fine how it is. It’s just. Frisk is good at explaining things to _one_ person. They’re good at seeing how they are and offering their charm and engagement, making an individual feel validated in a way that makes them more likely to listen to what Frisk has to say.

Frisk is good at figuring out how to explain something important to each person, tweaking it so they not only truly understand it, but showing them why they should care in a way that makes sense to them.

You’re good at explaining things to a whole bunch of people at the same time.

Sans shivers, thinking about something you share in his soul: writing. Words like a swarm of butterflies, creepy insect legs made lovely against colored fragile wing-dust. A burst of chaos, still mechanically efficient like the progress of ants. Like numbers stark before a decimal point, then exploding outward irrational and beautiful on the other side.

God. He wants nothing more than to scoop you up and take you home right now, feel that again. He wants to _beg_ for it wet and needy, shivering under your dense physicality. He thinks of the time you’d given him that...while playing with his genitalia until he came. Felt exactly like he’d burst apart into a field of fireflies that filled up the whole universe to bring light to everything that exists. You called it ‘the big bang’, and now he can’t hear that phrase without thinking of it.

He hears Alphys’s snicker, knows his soul’s desire is written all over his face.

He doesn’t care.

And he doesn’t scoop you up, because you’re still talking and he’s still paying attention.

They don’t clap or anything when you’re done, but you blink and blush like you’re coming out of a dream state or something. You make the screens disappear, then cover your flusterment with grabbing the now-probably-almost-cold noodles and scarfing them. Alphys starts providing feedback, but Sans gets up and shuffles back over to his station.

Sans shrugs out of half his hoodie to bare an arm, plants his elbow on Al’s MewMew Big Boobies wristpad, and hovers his whole left hand over the keyboard. He uses all the joints bending inward in to tap the key shortcuts, already bringing up the readings for the CORE(subsec>3359). He opens about 50 nested quantities and then repeats the process on the left to bring up last round’s readings.

He uses the mouse to start scrolling, which happens continuously until/unless he hits a discrepancy. After about ten seconds he clicks the setting that doubles the scroll length, and almost immediately triples it and hits cruising speed, about 3 to 5 checks per second. An odd little quirk softens the corners of his grin as his tertiary vision settles behind him, you and Alphys getting back into it. Al needs more breaks, and Sans plans to catch up to her while she’s still on hers.

There’s something about all these numbers pairing up. A little burst of light each time they’re the same, an implosion when they clash. Sans sees it, finds the problem, files a report. He sets it right, marks down what needs to be done, makes everything add up how it’s supposed to with a little help. Each bit of the world accounted for, even when it’s lopsided. But that’s okay; nothing’s perfect. Sans might not do much, but he does what he can.

Soul light as a word-butterfly, Sans speeds up to about 9 checks per second as he listens to Alphys complain about what human food does to her cloaca.


	12. Time Can’t Erase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tori Amos – Purple People (Christmas In Space)  
> https://youtu.be/lf-RdvLu3sk
> 
> This is actually my favorite Tori Amos song. And that’s saying something.

“they got a new section.” Sans’s mitten points at the corner of the monster grocery. He looks pretty satisfied about something. “you wanna check it out?”

“Do you _want_ me to check it out?” you tease.

Sans narrows his sockets at you.

You giggle and stick out your tongue.

“gonna catch some flies?”

“No,” you say calmly, then take his hand and lead him over to the indicated section at slightly faster than his usual slow shuffle. It is indeed new.

“Is this human food?”

“yeah.”

“Do you want to buy human food?”

“just figured we could have a looksee, right?” Sans hums and wiggles. “so, what do you think of that?”

You peer down into the low cold case, a little confused.

“jus’ like humans do it, right?” Sans grins.

You look at a studiously refrigerated plastic bag of what appears to be peanut butter. You poke it. Yeah, you’re pretty sure it’s peanut butter.

“No,” you report faithfully. Sans wiggles some more, his sockets narrowing in...anticipation?

“Did you bring me here to review the weirdness level of monsters arranging human food?”

“yeah,” he replies immediately, perfectly sincere.

“I love you so much,” you say likewise. Sans flushes and wipes his forehead with his sleeve, but it’s not a bad thing.

“love you too,” he says low and shy. It makes you smile. Then you look back into the case.

“But…don’t most of the humans who come here want to buy monster food?”

“well, yeah. but this’s for monsters.”

You stare for a second. Then you slap a hand over your face and rub at it.

“Sorry,” you mutter, then remove it. “So. I kind of forget sometimes a lot of monsters can eat human food? I’m really used to you and Papyrus.”

“s’okay.” Sans giggles. “remember that box by the door a while back?”

“You said it reminded you of Mettaton. Then you said you wished people would put money in your head while you took a nap by the door."

“yeah,” he agrees wistfully. “so, anyhow. people who had some human money put it in there, and folks who run this place used it to buy this stuff. now they can come get human food if they can’t get in the human grocery store, or just, uh. don’t want to.” You can think of a lot of reasons they might not want to.

“So, they were paying the store to buy things for them?”

Sans shakes his skull.

“no, that’s what they pay for when they come get it now.”

You give up on trying to understand monster money once again, and turn to making commentary about the selection and arrangement of the human food items. It’s mostly just things that don’t actually need refrigeration being refrigerated, like bags of chips, a waffle iron, loose dry macaroni, and a single long sleeve of saltine crackers.

The Sans-and-Alphys-style repurposed clear plastic bottles of melted ice cream are fairly amusing. All the chunks in the pistachio flavor (usually artificially flavored almond slivers in the same coconut frozen stuff you’re fond of, dyed violently green) have drifted to the bottom, and you shake it up like a cloudy snowglobe before putting it back.

Then, suddenly, your choose-o-vision zooms in on a Find.

Your hand follows rapidly.

“These actually look really good,” you say, picking up a bag of very choice-looking shrimp after giving it a careful sniff. They’re the stripey ones. “I want these.” You brandish it demandingly at Sans. He seems pleased, but you don’t expect him to take out his phone and just put the shrimp right in it. But he does.

“Is that okay?” you ask quickly, looking around through nervous force of habit.

“yeah.”

You sigh, but nod. You can never keep track of all the unbelievably complicated rules about who can buy what, and for how much, and _when_ , at the monster grocery. Which is impressive considering how regularly you come here. Sans takes your hand and gives it a squeeze.

So, uh. you ready to go home so I c’n make these for ya?”

“You’re going to cook for me?”

He nods shyly. “i was hoping you’d, uh. pick something i know how to make.”

“You know how to make shrimp?”

“yeah. you good?”

You are, so you and Sans head out of the store and take an unhurried stroll to his usual shortcut spot from downtown. He’s got a lot of those around Ebott. He shortcuts you both back to his place, and you saunter over to ‘your’ chair at the table and sit. Then you fold your arms and set your head on them. Sans takes off his hoodie, makes his usual halfass attempt to hang it on the back of a chair where it promptly slides off to puddle on the floor.

You warm yourself at the secret soulfire of Sans-doing-something-nice-for-you, and spend a while in the daydream zone while he clatters and shuffles around. It takes you a minute and him saying your name twice for you to look back up. Sans is asking you a question.

“do i gotta take this hard part off?”

“What hard part?”

“their, uh. skin part?” He holds one up and makes it do a drippy little dance. “didn’t have this on there when i did it before.”

“Oh!” He means the shell. “No, I can take it off after they’re done. Just rinse them really well.”

“okay.” He seems pleased. Which makes you realize he had not signed on to learn an entirely new task and then complete it, and hadn’t been looking forward to it. But he would have done it for you, and that’s cute as hell. Almost as cute as watching his wide skeleton butt shimmying in his shorts all over the kitchen.

“Mmnn.” You strain your ears. Super quiet today. “Where’s Frisk?” you ask idly.

“tori’s.” Sans lazily kicks his stepstool over to the refrigerator, fixing the quietness “problem” as handily as his brother would have.

“Still? They’ve been over there for like. A month.”

“eh, not quite.” Sans makes his selections and heads back to the stove. It reeks deliciously of hot butter in here, and then Sans adds something that smells enough like garlic that your stomach does a happy little flip.

“What smells like garlic?”

“...garlic.” 

“Human garlic?”

“nah,” Sans sighs happily. “garlic’s a _plant_ , darlin’. pretty sure humans are made of meat.”

You turn your face into your arms and wiggle with gleeful mirth for a few minutes. Sans’s jokes are funny because they’re not funny. They’re barely jokes, sometimes.

“you’re so corny,” you squeak, wiping your eyes on your sleeve-shoulder.

“hey, i didn’t promise to make any sides,” he rumbles, letting a socket slide shut as he peeks back over his narrow shoulder at you. "you want corn, you gotta farm it yourself."

He continues much in the same vein, dinner and a show, until he finally dumps the steaming and fragrant contents of the pan into a massive, squat bowl. Watching him march over with it held out proudly, a dishtowel slung over one bare forearm, does something wiggly to your heart. You sit up straight and let him place the bowl on the already-warm spot on the table. Then he hands you the dishtowel too, and sits down cattycorner to your spot to watch.

“you sure that hard part’s ok to eat?” he asks, tilting his skull at the shelled shrimp like they’re trying to get away with something.

“Oh, I don’t eat it.” You lean in and breathe the steam. “I have a whole system. You want to see?”

Sans gazes at you like the last bottle of ketchup on earth.

“yeah,” he says, a suspicious hoarseness in his voice.

You giggle and blush, strangely gratified. You pat around in there with a finger, find a shrimp toward the edge that’s mostly cool enough to touch.

You hold it up in both hands, the head and tail pinched between forefinger and thumb of each. You make it do a little swimming motion to make Sans smile, the pull it straight to show the feathery legs underneath. Sans’s browbone raises, impressed as you invert the shrimp and put the legs in your mouth.

“Mmm,” you inform him, sucking garlic butter out of the chitinous fringe of shrimp legs. It is gonzo bonzo Mcfucking delicious. Then you bite the legs off and go “Mleh” as you spit them onto your plate.

Sans nods with slow, solemn understanding.

“It leaves a little space in here, like starting an orange for Nattie,” you explain, finding the edge of the shell on the underside. You use it to peel it off, getting it all in one piece except for the little cup around the tail. Nice.

“These are kind of big, so I’m gonna take out the butt part.”

“you don’t like the butt part?”

Sans is grinning about the butt part, as he should.

“Most people call it the ‘sand vein’.” You run your fingernail up the top of the shrimp’s tail meat to dig out the little line along the surface. “But it’s the butt,” you giggle at your own double but/t, “and it’s gritty.” You wipe the back of your fingernail on the bowl’s edge, but the removed little strip isn’t even dark with yuckies. Damn, these are nice shrimp.

“Okay, shortiepie, watch this shit,” you say, and make an exaggerated face sort of like a cartoon horse smiling. You insert the entire shrimp into your mouth, put your teeth all the way down past the shell-cup to where the clover-shaped tail fin things sprout out.

You nip hard with incisors til it crunches, severing the connective bit that often keeps the last segment of meat in the cup….for most _casual_ shrimpeaters.

Then you suck the tail, proudly brandishing the shrimp with all the meat still no the end, holding up the completely empty tail-cup part. Sans looks as impressed as you’d hoped as your slurp the meat the rest of the way in and gnosh on it soundly.

“It’s perfect,” you slur, mouth full and happy. “You did a really good job, sweetie.”

Sans blushes hard enough to sweat a little. He watches avidly as you tear into your meal. He stays avid, but after a little bit of quiet seafood dismantling, he gets that thoughtful look on his face.

“What is it?” Definitely seems like something’s going on in the girthy skull of his. The kind of thing he might not share without prompting. He’s still on the fence for a second, then decides to say it after all.

“reminds me of, uh. sometimes a special thing happens, and monsters eat a buncha snails almost like you’re doing,” he says quietly. “lotta folks ask me to eat with ‘em, because i got little fingers that can get em out of the shell. all in one piece, like you’re doing. it’s lucky when that happens.” His nostalgic smile quirks with Sans-brand patented shy smugness. “they give me one a theirs for every lucky snail i do for them, so i get to eat past my share that way,” he chuckles.

It’s really cute that Sans’s talented hands are world-famous. Then you wonder if it’s _sexy_ for them to watch Sans do that, but don’t ask him right now since he already seems blushy and sweaty. Huh. Considering the way he’s watching you take apart a bowl of shrimp, odds are good that it is. You mentally recalculate Sans’s general level of desirability among monsters once again, and ask him something else instead of teasing him.

“Snails are the only kind of actual meat you guys have, isn’t it?”

Sans frowns in thought. “huh. yeah, i guess so. i don’t really think of it like that, though.” His eye lights subtly change texture. “that something you might like to try? if it happens.”

You stop chewing in surprise, sweet meat sitting heavy in your mouth. Then you swallow forcefully.

“but aren’t they like, um. people?”

Sans shrugs. “well. that’s kinda up to them? doesn’t really have anything to do with what i’m talking about, though.” Sans tilts his skull. “you…eat em all the time, darlin’. muffet’s stuff too, though that’s, uh. different.”

Oh. Right. The Snips’N’Snails sandwiches, although to be fair those are mostly subprime ingredients. And some of Grillby’s fry toppings. And Toriel’s pie.

“I think I’m full,” you sigh heavily, then start licking your fingers.

“well, that’s good. considering you ate ‘em all,” Sans chuckles. You ignore him and head to the sink to wash your face and hands. Then you head upstairs to brush your teeth, since garlic is the only thing you can smell, taste, or think right now. Then you drink a bunch of water out of the sink too because you’re thirsty. And _then_ take some pills, too. You can feel the vague puffiness that's the harbinger of a Big Hurty coming on in the next few hours, and now they’ve got a bellyful of shrimp to sink through. Might as well get ahead of it.

You jump when you turn around, because Sans is there.

“let’s go to our spot,” he grins, not sorry at all for having startled you from your impending shrimp coma.

“Sounds good.”

You get there, and Sans sets up your nest. Then, to your surprise, he goes out further towards the cliff and sets up a few more pillows there. You join him.

“hey. so. it’s a good hands day, right?”

You blink, the flex your fingers. It’s _been_ one, yeah, but...oh. You took your meds already, so you should be fine.

“Yeah, actually. You’re very observant,” you quip, on account of his demigodlike omniscient magic vision powers. Sans just giggles gamely, like usual. Then he produces your guitar from his phone and holds it out. You tilt your head and give him an extremely bland look.

“Did you steal my guitar so you could give it back to me as a gift?” He’s still giggling.

“no, but i’m flattered you think i would. gotta remember that one.” Sans offers the guitar and looks at the sun, which is approaching the horizon. He doesn’t narrow his sockets or anything, since staring at the sun can’t actually cause any problems for him. “i was thinking we could, uh. have a jam session?”

“Oh.” You take the guitar. “Ohhhhh,” you say again, a warm melty feeling flowing outward from what feels like your chest, even though you’ve got a feeling it’s deeper than that. You and Sans both play instruments….but…

“You want to play music with me?” you ask softly, touched. You've never actually done that before, since a day good enough for guitar is rare.

“yeah. if you’re up for it.”

“Hmmm….” You give it a strum as Sans produces his trombone, then try plucking out a few notes. So far so good, although the press of the strings into uncalloused skin is a little poignant. You shoot him a look, then use your nails to pluck out a specific opening riff. He’s already laughing again, and now so are you. Then you start to sing.

Badly.

_Shoo-da-doop, doh_

_Shoo-da-doop-da-doop-da-doh!_

Sans is already dooting out the runs you can’t actually sing, and neither can he. By the time you get to the chorus, you’ve already got a pretty good rhythm going together.

_You'll always be a part of me  
I'm part of you indefinitely… _

You just sing the melody, and Sans takes care of the trills and flourishes happening around, and it… sounds surprisingly good? That wasn’t really the goal, but you’ll take it!

_And we'll linger on  
Time can't erase a feeling this strong  
No way you're never gonna shake me  
Ooh, darling, 'cause you'll always be my baby!_

Once you get to the bridge you both start getting a little crazy with it, ad libbing and making a pretty groovy mess. By the end, he’s taking the mouthpiece away to do his flat little falsetto, and you’re laughing and adding in bars of other songs that have the same chord progression. One song turns into a second, then a third as you watch the setting sun blaze on bone and brass.

His dooting is especially skillful on "(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher & Higher" as you play the sun down, replacing the vocal with brazen notes as you strum madly and rhythmically. It's just as well, since neither of you can even pretend to sing that one. Then you end up deliberately singing a few songs you _know_ you can’t after that, and Sans laughs so hard at your caterwauling he can barely play.

The light turns purple eventually, and once the stars come out Sans gently suggests a retreat to the nest further back from the water.

“I guess you’re right,” you agree, voice a little hoarse with giggles as much as singing. It’s getting a little chilly, and you could probably stand to be under a blanket. Not exactly the warmest time of year, and you’re really feeling the soreness in your fingertip-skin now. Sans plies you with magic water and a bag of the candies you make him sometimes. You play the game about telling fortunes based on how they’re shaped. Sans produces one of his mysteriously warmish little dampcloths afterwards and cleans you both up.

“how’re you feelin’?” he whispers, gently tracing your features with the delicate, slightly-sharp point of his nasal bone.

“Good,” you admit quietly. “Thanks for, um. You know.” This is the best birthday you’ve had in a while.

“’m glad,” he whispers, giving you a nice big hug.

Then you both head under the covers and make a little starlight in there, too.

You carry the day around in your heart, and it lightens your steps for slightly more than a week. It had been perfect in every possible way.

Then, on family board game night, you send Sans a text giving him a hint about a strategy. You’re on opposite teams, sure, but you’ve formed a secret alliance based on glances and winks.

Or...so you thought.

A sudden sound rings out so _awful_ , so viciously unholy, Papyrus squawks in alarm and knocks over Nattie’s glass of water. That quick, he’s got the precious antique cardboard up over his head, directing Nattie to pick up the plastic pieces before the flood hits them. Nattie’s ignoring him though. They seem on the verge of tears.

“What _is_ that?” Nattie chokes through chubby fingers across their mouth. “What was that _sound_??” Everyone around the low coffee table looks similarly horrified. Shonda’s quickly explaining the noise to Frisk, and even MK says something about being glad Sariel wasn’t here for it.

“Was that your _phone_ , Sans?” Angie asks, aghast. “Did you make it play a horror movie or something? Can you please change it, I don’t want the kids...”

Angie goes on and on while Sans sits there all mild and sleepy like he never did anything wrong once ever in his life, watching your face turn even more purple.

You send another text under the table, staring daggers at your horrible, terrible, no-good-very-bad bonefriend. It reads [I want a divorce], and the same sound rings out again because you’re too mad to be smart.

Nattie actually does start crying this time.

It would appear Sans secretly recorded you singing the beginning of “Immigrant Song” by Led Zepplin that night, and set it to play when you text him.


	13. patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this sex scene last Valentine’s Day. At the time I think I posted on twitter that it was the most explicit thing I’d written XD
> 
> Anyhoo! Little more intense than their usual!
> 
> :3

Alphys and Undyne giggle and whisper for a few more minutes, then get up to wander off hand-in hand. They don’t even acknowledge you and Sans as they depart, utterly wrapped up in each other.

The little pajama-party movie night thingie Papyrus had invited you all to has been great….but it’s still kind of early for it to be breaking up. It had turned into more of a cozy little couples thing...and had also got a lot quieter once Papyrus and Mettaton left, not that it’d been a problem while they were there. Papyrus’s weird banter and Mettaton’s ceaseless monologue over his own movie had been a lot more entertaining than the actual movie, in your opinion. In an unprecedented plot twist, you and Sans are somehow the last couple left standing.

Well, if “standing” was a word that could describe you lying on the couch like a beached ocean mammal, Sans face down on top of you with his skull turned so you can both watch what remains of the film. Lots of pleasant nature scenery, but a little heavy on the fraught and wordless emotional staring. Not your usual fare, but you’re willing to make an exception for parties.

Still, it’s rare that you and Sans outlast anyone, let alone _everyone_.

“Hey, shortiepie.” You move your leg so it bops his hip and makes his skeleton butt wiggle, then keep going because it’s fun to make him do a reclining booty dance. “Do you know why everyone took off early?”

Sans lies there like dead weight a-wobblin’, blinks his sockets slowly in your peripheral vision.

He hums thoughtfully, like his rumble engine needs to warm up. “mm...might be they want some privacy. for us, today’s kinda like, uhhh….lover’s day? that sorta thing.”

Huh. That’s interesting, considering monsters don’t really categorize relationships that way. Not really. Most of the time stuff like that’s just for fun, playacting stuff from human media, which they also….consider kind of _kinky_. Well, well, well.

Sans adjusts under the blanket half-covering both of you; scratching at himself, from the feel of it. “probably went off ta give each other somethin’ special.” He lets out a soft, amused huff. “...heh. maybe _do_ a lil something special, too.”

You spit out the star-shaped charm on the end of his drawstring that you’ve been gnawing on, then make an exaggerated expression of mock-disappointment at him. Eventually he turns his skull and sets his chin on your chest so he can see it. There’s a little tickle of excitement in your chest, because the fact that Sans is still awake reeks of him making an _effort_. Intriguing.

“Well, I didn’t know it was _lover’s day_ , so I’m exempt from coming up with special sexy surprises. I didn’t have time to plan.”

“i don’t ever plan,” Sans lies happily, sockets narrowing with interest on your expression.

“Wow, guess you’re the worst bonefriend ever,” you drawl playfully.

Sans’s grin turns smug, and your intake of breath is not without glee.

“Oh hoo hoo, are you cooking up something special for me? Or you just yanking my chain for revenge?”

“wanna go somewhere with me n find out?” he rumbles, eyes sliding away to look at the wall deviously.

“Do I have to stand up?”

“...nah.”

“Then I’m in.” You give him a kiss on the forehead, then shut your eyes and wrap your arms around him tight. There’s a sense of dislocation, a lurch as you take a shortcut with him into the wild unknown. Despite that, you open your eyes to the quite tamely _known_. You’re on his mattress his bedroom, but...there’s something _between_ you and the mattress. You reach down for a feel.

“Sans,” you say flatly. “Did you put down a _towel_?”

He sighs happily right in your face, redolent of bones and the hot dogs you both ate earlier. “yeah. few of ‘em, in fact.”

Uh, okay. He _did_ plan something.

“Well, first of all, you are a fibbing demon imp who planned something.” He smiles gently, pleased as pie. You quirk a (not exactly nervous) eyebrow. “Secondly, I’m not sure I’m up for the kind of _something_ you have to put a towel down for.”

“mmm…you sure about that?”

Sans shifts around on top of you, gets up on an elbow and produces slender bone fingers holding… oh. It’s just a bottle of pale yellow, neutral oil, the kind he uses once in a while to anoint his famously clever hands and coax the pain out of your joints and muscles. And sometimes to oil up his sacrum-tongue-genitalia thing to keep it slick, since it likes to be stroked for literally hours. Sans has a special toy he uses when your arms need a break, and _watching_ that is--

“thought i’d pull out all the stops for the special occasion,” Sans giggles, interrupting your increasingly horny train of thought. He waggles the bottle. “try n be a lil less lazy for an hour or so.”

“An _hour_?” You grin, already sitting up (and slowly dumping him off you) in playful disbelief. You go to pull off your shirt, but he touches your wrist.

“lemme do it,” he says wriggling up to his knees. “whole five yards or whatever.”

“It’s nine,” you say as he slips tepid bone hands under your shirt and around your sides. He gives you a hug and whuffles your neck with his nasal cavity, making your skin prickle pleasantly with goosebumps before pulling your shirt off slow and sensual. He gets bare too, with a sultry look that makes your heart do a funny little thud.

The massage is amazing, nowhere near an hour, and full of increasingly fascinating reasons for him to rub his oily bones all over you from behind. And you get to just lie there and get caressed (and teased) until you feel like you might just melt to be absorbed by the towel along with the oil.

“jus’ wondering,” Sans says in a half whisper, “if maybe you wanted to try out that thing we talked bout?”

You open an eye to peer at his aroused, interested expression over your shoulder.

“yeah…” He answers the question you haven’t asked yet, and you feel the warm, resonating touch of a firm length against your buttcheek. “this’ll work, but we can do whatever you’re in the mood for.” His sockets are filled with heated promise, equally keen on something new and sexy, the kind of stuff you usually do, or even some remarkably lubricated cuddling if that was what you wanted.

A hot little pang of excitement makes your face warm. “You wanna stick it in my butt, huh?”

“mmhmm,” he replies simply. His smile is incredibly soft, and he drags his hard, oily-silken fingertips down your back until you shudder.

“Like this?” you ask cautiously, lifting your butt to rub it against his thrumming genitalia. His soft grunt sounds pleased by the friction, but he shakes his skull as he hunkers down, leans on one elbow and humps you some more.

“thought about it a while, got a few ideas,” he says. His exhale’s gratifyingly uneven, and he does a little shiver as he rubs on you a few more times. Then he stops, gives your ass a pat and flops down next to you on his back. “think it’s better if you’re on top for starters, so you can move around n figure out if you like it.”

You frown dubiously. You were kind of enjoying the just lying there part. Also, you’re a little nervous, maybe?

“i’m gonna do the ‘getting it in there’ part,” he reassures you. “all you gotta do is lie there, jus’...on _me_.”

You roll over and clamber on top of your smiling bonefriend, asking, “Don’t we have to do a bunch of like fingering and stuff first?”

“mmm...that’s one way to do it. but, heh, this thing’s not big. and messing with your butt too much c’n make the inside skin part, uh. irritated, i guess? was jus’ gonna put it in real easy and see how it goes, but lemme know if it hurts. ‘s not supposed to hurt.”

By then you’re settled, and Sans grins up at you seeming pleased with himself. He squeezes your buttcheeks some more, then lifts his chin demandingly.

“turns out i need some foreplay,” he giggles. how bout—yeah, that’s the stuff,” he huffs as you kiss his teeth and jaw. He wiggles until he can reach, and starts rubbing your oily buttcrack with his nubbled fingers. He massages the hole in a circle, and you find yourself getting pretty exited again. You gasp when he tickles a slim fingertip slightly inside, pressing your cheek to this teeth and echoing his soft _yeah_ when he slides it in. He’s done that before when you asked, but there’s usually a bunch of other stuff going on. This time he slips it back out again, and you realize he was oiling it up when he tosses the bottle aside. Then the slender tip of his length is pressed there. You tense at first, then relax with a sigh.

“all good?” Sans’s breath is warm with arousal, a little unsteady. His hard, smooth hand gently kneads your buttcheek; the fingertips of the arm wrapped around you traces idle nonsense between your shoulderblades. Like he’d be just as happy if this took all day. You take a deep breath, let it out slow and methodically relax your body until you feel nice and malleable, and hum an affirmative. He moves his legs apart, bracing himself. With a contented little exhale, he puts slight downward pressure on your hips.

You wait for something to happen, but then you realize...it kind of is. The pressure of his genitalia against the slippery tightness of your opening is barely there, but when he uses his hips to add a bit more direction...it goes in a little.

Then you tighten, mighty muscle making him bend, and it slips back out. For some reason, that’s really funny. Sans giggles with you, then rubs your back and says, “physics got us again, huh? guess it’s gotta be a team effort.”

“Hey, Sans?”

“mm?”

“Put your junk in my trunk.”

“okay,” he says happily, gripping your hips again. This time goes better; a slow, measured inhale as thrumming magic opens you. Once it starts to feel tight, he stops and just chills out for a minute. It stays this time when you squeeze, and Sans’s breath does a little stutter, too.

“Is, um. Are you…?”

“yeah,” he purrs, nuzzling along your jaw. “feels nice.” Warm phalanges stroke your back lasciviously. They take their time heading downwards, make you shiver as he touches the spot your bodies are joined. “more?”

“….Yeah.”

“mmh...” Sans sucks in a breath, arms tightening as he slips in “…warm in here….” You make a noise, shiver and let him press you down another tiny bit. Then his genitalia does a hard little _pulse_ , and you squeak because it’s...wow. Very tight. Sans stills his entry and nuzzles gently at the side of your face.

“does that when it’s good for me,” he whispers unevenly. “how you doing?”

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, then realize that’s...not an answer. “I like it.”

“me too,” he whispers excitedly, then traces where he enters you with a fingertip. “might go in quick after this, cause the middle’s the fattest part. lemme know.” You make a wordless questioning noise. “it’s tight here,” he tries, touching again, “but real slippery. like...at the beginning, but th’other way. gotta let it happen, cause pulling at it might hurt. i c’n help if you want.”

“Yeah,” you say after a long pause. In this context, ‘helping’ means keeping you from moving involuntarily. Holding. But Sans hasn’t ever done any kind of holding that bothered you, probably because he always says something. You trust him.

“okay,” he says, wraps his arms firmly around your hips, and pushes in.

Once second it’s easy, widening pressure; the next, you feel your muscles tremble and contract as it tapers down. The slickness makes it so it doesn’t catch at all, and when you tighten automatically around the lessened girth, it just--

“Oh!” you blurt, and the lubricated shapes of your bodies just sucks him right in. You do a reactive little flinch when it starts, but Sans’s embrace keeps you from pulling against the slide. He lets out a small, shuddery noise as he hilts in you abruptly, the suddenness of it huffing an overwhelmed breath from your lungs.

“how’s that?” he asks after a minute of so of rubbing your back.

Your hand makes its way downtown and finds the equivalent of what happens after an army of feverish snails goes somewhere in a hurry. You move your finger and moan at the heat it ignites, then move your hand away so you can concentrate on how the actual buttfucking part feels. Because otherwise you might just frantically rub yourself off before you’ve even really gotten used to it.

“Seems I’m severely into this,” you say weakly. “You-” you cut yourself off with a moan as he does another pulse in you, then squeeze him back to hear his feathery little grunt.

“want me to move it around?”

“Try it...”

He holds your waist and pushes his pelvis back into the give of the mattress, but even with how slick everything is there’s still a little tug of friction that doesn’t _quite_ hurt. That would be the previously discussed ‘fattest part’.

“Mmn.” You wince gently away; he settles, phalanges soothing your skin as he lets out an uneven breath.

“give it a minute,” he murmurs, then turns his face to distract you with demands for kisses. Turns out making out with a dick in your ass is pretty sexy, even if it’s not really a dick. You spend a while on that, pulsing and squeezing each other with increasing enthusiasm, and you can tell Sans is getting awfully worked up.

“ohh…jus’ like that...” he breathes as your fingers rub between his ribs. Sans’s hands keep roaming and petting, ticklish thigh touches that enhance everything you’re feeling. “i c’d do this all day if moving it around bugs you.” Then he grips your ass and presses your bodies together, nudges without thrusting. A whimper squeaks through his held breath before he lets it out in a gush, all shaky and hot. You try doing the same, tilt back and forth a little...and, wow. That is a surprisingly promising sensation.

“Let’s try again,” you ask unsteadily.

He wraps an arm around your hips and twines the other at your nape, grinding a little. It makes you even more aware of the heat and fullness, and you gasp together when he pulses again. There’s a seething feeling at the entrance when he does that, like his arousal rushes at the surface to be contained…..by you. It’s still tight, but…nice. And nothing at all like taking a weird backwards shit, which you were kind of worried about.

Sans pulls back just enough for a shallow thrust, and lets out a breathy moan. Again, and you realize he’s saying your name.

“oh fuck,” he breathes, rocking in and out the tiniest bit, “oh, you’re...that’s so….”

It sure is. Sans moans like he’s already close, his bones shuddering underneath you. There’s a tiny bit of surface burn, seems less from friction than just being opened up, but the pressure each time he pushes in is incredibly satisfying. You want more.

You brace your legs to try and move with him, then make a tiny displeased noise. Weight on your legs tenses your whole pelvic floor, and it increases the burn. Sans stills despite his trembling and moaning to let you figure it out, but further attempts have the same result. You’re about to try supporting your weight on your arms, but Sans interrupts.

“let’s switch now we know you l...like it,” he pants, junk throbbing in the middle of his sentence. It takes you a minute to for that to penetrate (ha). Then you frown. Changing positions from here might be a little problematic.

“I don’t know how we-”

“shut your eyes,” he whispers. You tuck your face against him and do as he says. And yep. There’s the disorienting lurch of a shortcut, and gravity’s going the other way now. It shifts the downstairs action when he adjusts to take his own weight, and you cry out together, clutching one another tightly.

“Fuck,” you hiss, panting as you relax your legs again. He leans up on his elbows, trembling as he presses his bony hips to your soft flesh. Leans his weight into you, like he needs it to keep steady.

You open your eyes. He gasps at whatever he sees in them, closes his sockets with a tight huff and bows his skull until his frontal bone touches your forehead. Makes you tighten, makes him pulse rigidly inside you. The sound he makes is high and breathy, goes straight to your core and melts there like honeyed lava.

“….fuck...” You can feel his ragged exhale against your lips as he bobs and flutters inside you. “m-might jus’ come soon’s i move. you wanna rub off?” Your legs shake when they squeeze him, and _you’re_ so close to coming you can practically taste it in your panting breaths.

“You’re gonna come like this?” you taunt throatily, teetering right with him at the edge of something awesome. There’s an inferno between your legs, laid over the fuel of heat and pressure filling your ass. Feels like one touch and you’re going to go off, too. You can barely restrain yourself from rubbing your clit, and you simultaneously want this to last forever. It’s intense, but somehow that’s a good thing. It’s kind of perfect.

“m’ so excited, babe,” he whimpers hoarsely, pelvic bones pressed trembling-tight against your flesh. You can feel his brow creasing against your face. “...dunno ‘f i can keep goin after...” Most of the time he can, but this is a new thing...and he always wants to be so good for you. He loves giving you what you want, as long as you want. Thing is….you don’t always want him to be all about pleasing _you_. He is _super_ into this, and that’s turning you on just as much.

“Me too,” you insist, your arm tightening around him as you slide your other hand down towards your junk. “I’m so close, I want us to go together like this, _please_...”

You trail off into a shaky noise as he thrusts, astonished by the hot, needy ache that ignites in your unoccupied genitalia. Your fingers find your clit on their own. It feels like desperately _wanting_ to be fucked, but also being more fucked than you’ve ever been at the same time. Wanting and getting, each intensifying, happening simultaneously, and separated only by a thin membrane.

Sans’s gravelly astonishment voices itself as you quiver on him with sudden tension already close to its peak. You can feel his uncontrolled shudder in the thrumming magic that pierces you, and you do your best to stay relaxed when the friction increases around his quickening movements. Sans scrabbles your leg up over his shoulder with a needy whine, then thrusts with momentum behind it.

“Oh!” you holler, startling and full-voiced. This angle presses all the good bits inside you from a unique direction, delivering on that promising sensation earlier. “oh fuck, _fuck_ …!” More than good; a harder thrust sends the impact deeper, quivering into parts that quiver on their own when you come. Stuff that doesn’t get stimulated when you do this the other way, and he keeps at it when he sees what it does for you.

You tighten despite yourself; he gasps and pulls out a little farther than he has been. There’s a faintly irritating tug as he curses helplessly, but the blossom of slick pressure as he drives back in punches a low, guttural sound out of you. The next time, that same sound’s also you yelling _yeah_ really loud.

With a shuddering groan, Sans’s control collapses and he fucks into you with hitching, bouncy little thrusts. There’s a hoarse sound near your head and you’ll find a hole later where his hand tore the sheet, but right now you’re preoccupied with your body’s sudden laser focus on climaxing. You get there first, your helpful fingers strumming your clit like a mandolin.

Sans somehow manages to stagger lying down as you clamp down on him. He presses his face into your shoulder as his steady stride gains an odd limp, determined not to yank against your sudden, spasming tightness. Then he comes and does it anyhow, even the resistance at your entrance no match for his slickness as he lets your body’s grip tug out his peak.

Sans’s deep moan goes syrupy-soft as he drives back in, then eases to a savoring pace that draws out your orgasm like rocking over speedbumps. Your peak ignites with a soft whump at the burn of his unfettered length gliding through your body’s grasp, but it’s the sweetness of each inward thrust that brings tears to your eyes.

Sans stills with a shuddering moan. He presses deep and just stays there, murmuring endearments as you pant under his fervent caresses. Maybe the third time he moans your name you manage to open your eyes into timeless darkness with galaxies spilled across at random. They’re the points in Sans’s sockets, textured and dilated to nearly fill the darkness in his skull. You’re not the only one lost in what you can make each other feel.

“turns out i really like it,” Sans slurs shamelessly, greedy little fingerpoints pushing through your hair as he rubs his hard face all over your soft, sweaty one. “h’about you?”

“fuuuuck,” you say throatily. “…. _yeah_.”

“think you c’n go again?”

You pant another soft curse as he throbs again with patient excitement. It’s like you barely remember what it’s like to _not_ have your ass stuffed full of pulsing magic. His magnetic resonance in here is like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and exactly like he always feels at once.

“T...try it...” He does, and it still feels good. Less urgent, but maybe thats a good thing.

“Yeahhhh….” you exhale, lifting your chin invitingly. He just winks. Then you realize he’s dumping more oil on where the fucking’s happening before he comes down for a nuzzle. He mumbles soothing words and gives you a crooked-excited grin, then nudges gently to seek that spot you liked. Your head cranes back even further when he finds it, and you let your eyes slip shut. He presses his teeth to your jaw with a ragged exhale, and starts a gentle, upward rocking that makes your insides tremble.

“yeah...” he breathes, the tenderness in his shaky whisper making your eyes feel wet and hot behind their lids, “i know it’s a lot.” His teeth press your lips, careful and attentive. He’s being so easy, giving you room to _want_ more instead of barreling forward, letting the desire wake and warm up inside you. “feels special, right? _love_ you, you know that? love how you let me in here...” You whimper as he withdraws a bit further, turning your head to the side. It’s that whole ‘fat in the middle’ shape issue. Sans kneels carefully with a ragged sigh, pulls your legs up over his shoulders. “hmm...lemme help, k?”

You let out a weird little huff, then nod. You move your arms, and Sans lies down on your thighs until you’re bent double. His arms slip under your shoulders to hold you snug, then pulls back until the tightness makes you tense. “relax for me,” he breathes, squeezing you like a nice compact little package. You close your eyes and put your arms up, then do your best to forget your legs exist.

As soon as Sans moves, he stops again with a soft curse. His magic sheds, its poignant tingle adding itself to the sensations inside you.

“Ohhhhh.” That changes how it feels, actually. Kind of...warm. Soothing, even thought it’s tingly.

“you okay?” He sounds nervous.

You let out a big old breath. “Helps, actually.” Sans’s grip tightens and he makes an odd sound, so you open your eyes.

“you like it?” he whispers shakily, then huffs when you nod. “doesn’t...bother you?”

You shake your head fervently. You’re used to his magic shedding when you have sex any sort of way. Especially from his junk, and it’s strange it hasn’t until now. His magic doesn’t feel like anything or anyone but him; that calms you, helps you relax. Which was kind of the point here.

“It feels good,” is all you say, but Sans moans like that’s doing it for him. The tingle renews itself as he shudders hard all over and starts a slow, sinuous movement that pulls back just a little more each time. He must feel you easing up because you sure do, and he keeps at it, working you open.

“’m so wet for you,” he pants helplessly as he finally kneels again, spreads your thighs as he pushes in and out slowly. “’s cause i want you to feel good.”

“Yeah,” you agree deliriously, and it occurs to you that you could definitely be playing with yourself right now. So you do, and wow. You tighten again, but it feels better than before, like there’s more give to it. Wow, Sans isn’t the only one who’s wet. You rub all over instead of just focusing on getting off as hard as possible, and there’s something really sexy about being able to feel the movement of him fucking you while also just kind of having your whole genitalia to diddle at will.

Gives you an idea, actually. You push your finger _inside_ on the flood of slick you’re making, and it gets even better. You whimper, because you can feel how busily occupied your ass is through the thin membrane that separates the passages. You make more noise when you add pressure against it, and this time Sans joins you.

“ _fuck,_ ” Sans whisper-sobs, “c’n i do it?” Whatever words you just choked out might be the right ones. You bite back a cry when bone fingers replace yours, narrow digits sliding in thinly, then spreading to give you some girth to squeeze. You switch to rubbing your clit, and a noise that can’t be human pushes out through your gritted teeth when his phalanges press deep.

Sans moans raggedly, moves his fingers in as deep as this channel can go. A bright-citrus harmony begins between slick, ruinously mobile bone and the magic-stretched passage below…. where you're realizing he can thrust in even farther. He does it again, and your head swims with each insistent little push. You’ve got more depth here, and his movements grow nuanced to show you just how much. His fingers press and stretch down inside you, then retreat as his thrusts angle to hit the same spot from the back, then _past_ it. Alternating in a way that feels like double-time.

All your thoughts melt like candyfloss in water; all you can _do_ is feel the way your body takes him in, magic and bone alike. Funny thing is, _Sans_ is usually the one who likes to challenge himself, see how much he can take. You’re beginning to see the appeal.

There’s no talking now, words can’t wrap themselves around this. Just the quickening sounds of soft-wet impact and Sans’s low, sobbing breaths. There’s only heat and sweat and the increasing tingle of his magic, slicking and smoothing the way for the give and take. Only how hard and good he is to have swiveling with increasing abandon through the slick-opened grip of your insides. You reach the edge of inevitability in what feels like slow motion, growling faintly through your teeth, head swimming as you clench hard enough to grate bone.

Sans lets out a gasp, followed by a desperate curse. Your ass quivers as a gush of Sans’s spend fills it, makes it feel hot and loose around his thick pounding. There’s considerably more than you can absorb right away, and you feel a low twinge of urgent pressure at the fluid being introduced. You make another inhuman noise as your climax clamps down and presses in on it. He eases his genitalia back but doesn’t pull out, neither of you wanting to stop while you’re in the middle of an orgasm.

It might have worked if his desperation didn’t make him shed _again_ , filling you until you swear you can feel it in your stomach. His fingers keep pushing, in and out now as if he’s easing his spend up a path deeper than his genitalia could follow. It’s so much; rippling bone massaging deep, easing the needy ache to relieve the pressure he’s filling you with. Your body can’t help but bear down in instinctual desperation, and it only sweetens the ceaseless friction at the straining ring of your ass that keeps you from letting it out.

Another orgasm steps on the heels of the first, your stretched-tight passage trembling to contain not only him, but the flood corked by his thrusting as he urges it in further with his tireless fingers. Your belly and pelvic floor spasm hard as another wave rocks you, making you clench against increasingly desperate _need…_ Your climax goes sharp and your vision goes misty, but it might be the best orgasm you’ve ever had.

Once your climax eases the need reasserts itself, making you shiver and mewl with desperation. Sans presses his face to yours, guides your hips downward as he gently pulls out all the way. If you weren’t so fuck-drunk, you might be a little shy about the way his magic blurts out of you, but it’s obvious he could tell you needed to. It’s not actually that much. In fact, you reach down and urge him to continue, somehow still wanting more.

“…you _sure_ , darlin’?” You moan a plea when he grips behind your knee. The tip of his genitalia kisses the soft, willing mouth he’s made of your entrance. “’s gonna make me come, okay?” he says faintly, and your desire grows frantic as you nod. You push your hips at him greedily, pawing gently at his bones. Sans slides in like butter, starts fucking you with a shuddering cry when he feels how open and wet you are. Just-attained relief is pierced with his eager shaft, replacing malleable fullness with rigid girth.

“’m so close, babe,” he pants raggedly. “want you to f…feel me do it...”

You can hear his broken voice perfectly, but your vision’s misty around the quickening impact. His genitalia feels incredibly hot, even contrasted with the fevered temperature of your jellied, feather-sensitive insides. You tighten on the textured slide of hard, drenched bone in counterpoint, slick penetration everywhere until you can’t even tell them apart anymore. His cries are lovely, all breathless joy and abandon as he chases his pleasure within the sweet, molten ache of your ass. His bones tremble like he might just fall apart, and then, of course, he does.

Sans can’t manage anything except your name, a sob through his teeth as he tips over the edge, but he presses as deep as he can and holds there. Another sob hisses out of him as his hips jerk hard...and then his fingers push down on the fat, seething pulse of his climax from your _other_ inside. Sans moans as his slick-nubbled bones fuck wetly into you, rubbing his pleasure out that way so you can feel the stuttering heartbeat of his orgasm. He stays still as long as he can bear, then switches to thrusting is so unhurried it feels like the entire lower half of your body’s melting. The inward press makes fireworks go off on the inside of your lids.

You don’t know when exactly he goes from coming himself to pleasuring you one last time. His hand turns until there’s a hard little bone waggling on your clit, but nothing tightens. Your body is ecstatically calm and your mind is empty, accepting everything he wants to give you. Waves of indescribable heat flow up from your pelvis, and it’s like everything inside your skin is filled with him. A strange feeling of calmly chaotic stillness cradles your being, one that somehow reminds you of merging souls without being anything like it.

His whole hand’s waggling now; Sans keeps his rigid length deep for shot, insistent thrusting as he presses his teeth to your knee. The movement in your body starts to feel directionless yet ceaseless, unwinding you like spooled ribbon thrown from a skyscraper. Fireworks blend together into static, and you can’t tell the difference between in and out anymore. You don’t even tense when you come, the brick-heavy pleasure of it just caving your whole roof in. You actually pass out for real, if only for a second or two.

Holy shit.

When you come back to yourself, it must have been a little longer because it seems Sans found a way to get the towels wherever that sort of thing ends up. Nothing here but blankets and mattress now. He also acquired some warm, wet washcloths he’s finishing up with, and he asks if you’re feeling okay like he already did at least once.

“Heeeurgh,” you say with feeling. “Awesome.”

His exhale’s amused, but the set of his nakeybones shoulders still eases slightly. He cuddles you and gives you one of his special water bottles that looks like trash and it’s...wow, it’s the most refreshing thing you’ve ever had. You drink it all. After some serious cuddles, verbal reassurances, and mutual endearments, he pulls you close and sets his chin on your head.

“….hey. ‘m real sorry i got too wet, okay?”

You clear your throat.

“‘Magic enema’ wasn’t exactly on my bucket list,” you whisper, blushing. “But I guess, um. I didn’t want to stop,” you admit. “It’s fine.”

He makes a noise of mild disagreement. “and i didn’t stop cause i could see that.” He gives you a little hug. “but…i don’t ever wanna do anything that makes ya feel embarrassed, then or later. so…don’t, okay? happened cause a _me_ , so it’s my responsibility.” It’s kind of an odd idea, but it makes you feel better anyways.

“You don’t usually shed that much,” you allow bashfully, then disengage just enough so you can see him. He looks shy.

“mighta been cause….i was trying _not_ to before,” he murmurs. “from what i read up on, i thought it...would bother you in there.” He makes a faint click as magic seethes briefly across his skull. “...if i did at all? didn’t realize it’d have ta be a lot. ‘m sorry.”

“I mean, you put the towels down…” A questioning lilt comes into your voice at the end without really meaning it to. Sans looks down.

“put the towels ‘cause of the oil,” he whispers, face iridescent as hell as he fidgets with the blanket. He’s telling the truth. He also said he was _sorry_ , which makes you put two and two together. _Sans_ is embarrassed.

“Awww, Sans...” You hold his face until he looks at you, then set him free since your limbs are still super noodly. “If I don’t get to be embarrassed, you don’t get to either, okay?” Sans sighs, rubbing the back of his hand under his broad mandible self-consciously.

“guess feelings jus’ kinda happen, huh?” he says after a minute, the huffs a quiet little laugh. “...yeah.” His eyes flick at you bashfully, then with a little more confidence. “guess it’s, uh. proportional? when it feels that good.” He smiles, and this time he stays looking at you.

“It feels good for you when I, um. Absorb it, right?”

“course it does.” He sounds like you asked him if it feels good when you rub his junk, or touch his soul.

“I mean...I can’t understand what it says,” you try. “Is it… _physical_ pleasure? Like, do you feel it go in?”

Sans frowns.

“think i might actually have an idea what you’re getting at? most monsters wouldn’t, but… hmm.” He scratches his mandible. “for us, there’s...not much of a difference.”

“Between what?”

“between feeling good from it like _you_ mean, and just...knowing it’s going in there, or seeing it or whatever. we feel that.”

“Huh.” You lie down together, start to settle in. You’re feeling sleepy now, and he always is. It’s nice how that works out. “I think humans aren’t much different,” you admit, then yawn. “A lot of the time it’s the idea of something, more than the thing, you know? And that was….special?”

“it’s always special,” he says low and fervent, and you heartily agree, but…

“A special occasion, maybe,” you whisper against bone, heading off to dreamland. “That’s what it was, right? Lover’s Day?”

“heh….yeah,” Sans mumbles, then does a weak little shiver. “how’d I do?”

“Fantastic,” you admit in a big, gushy sigh. “I’m not sore or anything, but my butt definitely feels like it hosted a special occasion.”

Sans giggles softly, stays quiet for long enough you figure he’s done. Then he gives you a last sleepy whisper as he nuzzles into you.

“...yeah. i felt like that the first time you hand-fucked me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heheheheheheheheheh :3


End file.
